It's been a few days...

I'm sorry I haven't blogged for some time, but I've been trapped in the bowels of a Martian Spaceship. There, they carried out horrific tests on me, such as making me write essays on the history of European tourism...
 However, orchestrating a cunning distraction using a funnel and a bag of grass clippings, I escaped from the ship and fell all the way to safety. It would appear I'm indestructible. I intent to push my luck by wrestling fire-spewing bears for a living.

Happy April fools

I have played a trick on you all. Just wait, its coming at any moment.
 I lied. I'm sorry, I just wanted to be the big man.

So, safe in the knowledge a trick isn't being played on you, why not go look in your closets? There certainly isn't a fire-spewing bear in there!

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...

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.

I've sprung a leak...

Fortunately, I'm not a boat, so I'm wasn't immediately worried. Still, to be on the safe side, I called a plumber to come and take a look.
 The doorbell rung, and I duly opened it. The plumber stood outside. Well, I assumed he was a plumber: He had tool-belt anyway, and a small moustache. He looked up as I opened the door:
 "Good morning madam," He began. "I hear your pipes need looking at..."
I sighed, and let the plumber in.
 "The leak's in my bedroom," I began unthinkingly. "Can you try and fix it?"
 "The bedroom? Yea, I'll see what I can do. Just show me your leak, and I'll see if I've got the tools for the job."
 I showed the plumber into my room, and wandered off to make some coffee. I returned, about 5 minutes later, to find the plumber sprawled naked on my bed. I looked at him in shock for a few moments, and he began to look sheepish. From my walls came the rush of water, and like a badly-formed sexual metaphor, the pipes broke, spurting water into the room. After a few minutes, I snorkeled the plumber and left him to work.
 In fact, it turns out he has no actual plumbing qualifications. As such, he drowned after a few minutes. Fortunately, I opened a window and the water flowed out, taking the dead plumber with it.
 What I should have done was get something fire-spewing to evaporate the water.
 Do you get fire-spewing plumbers? I'd like to think so, there's certainly a market for them...

Paul and the dragon

Once again, ridiculous tragedy has befallen me. Outside, in my back garden, a giant, fire-spewing dragon has taken up residence. Its not really causing me any trouble at the moment - I tend to send out a sheep for it to eat every day, and it seems pretty content with that (The dragon, that is. The sheep are generally discontent with the whole plan.) However, with Spring approaching, I really want to tend to my vegetable patch, and the over-sized lizard is camped out on top of it. To this end, I hired a group of reputable dragon-slayers to help me out. When I first read their advert - located as all good adverts are; in a phone-booth - I thought the spelling mistakes and crude punctuation were to make the advert more 'olde-worlde'ish. However, it was not. Despite their claims to be able to "tame the giant serpent", these so-called dragon slayers were hideously incompetent. They claimed to be able to make the dragon "Spew its fire until it could spew no more", but in fact, they were burned alive within seconds of trying. And to make things worse, since the dragon is taking up my whole back yard, I have no-where to bury the bodies.
 I'm running out of sheep now. Max is coming 'round later... I wonder if he tastes like mutton?

I entered the bookshop.

I entered the bookshop. I apologise for the lack of drama in this introduction, but it's true. I did, in fact, enter the bookshop. Well, not entirely true. Actually, I'm pretty much making this all up.
 So, I entered the bookshop and took a casual glance around. I hadn't come for anything in particular, I was just trying to pass a few hours before going home. The bookshop, large and open, was fairly generic, and probably has some sort of generic name that was similar to a real bookshop, like WaterSmiths, or something else stupid. It wasn't busy, which was good - I can rarely stomach eating a crowd - mainly populated by sheepish looking men in coats, squinting through over-sized glasses at books they don't want, and turning down offers of help with polite embarrassment. However, something did catch my eye: There, in the middle of the room, a table had been set up. Piles of books were stacked to one side, and a balding, bearded man in an ill-fitting suit was seated behind it. Above the table, a large banner explained the situation to me.
 "Meet Shakespeare's reanimated corpse!" It said. Of course, I thought, that explains the piles of Shakespearean texts next to the table.
 I watched for a few minutes. No-one showed any interest in the table, or the man behind it. It was very sad, I reflected sadly. On the other hand, I wasn't going to go over there, the man was a liar: Branding so much of his work comedy, when only Romeo and Juliet was actually funny.
 Shakespeare himself didn't seem too upset by the lack of customers either. In fact, he seemed more confused by the pen he was holding, clicking the lid over and over again. A few of the sheepish looking men were passing his table, trying to get to the agriculture section behind him. Their expressions were those of men who really felt they should go to the table, but really didn't want to.
 Presently, a suited man I took to be the manager emerged from the back of the store, and stormed up to the table. Emotionally, he made a plea for people to take an interest in the re-animated author:
 "Come on people!" He yelled, "Why, this man is one of the most famous authors and poets of all time! fire-spewing tales! I mean, even if that doesn't interest you, the man has been brought back from the dead. Surely you at least have some questions? He can tell you about heaven, for God's sake!"
 "Lot of women... Almost too many, and not enough cooking being done..." I heard Shakespeare mutter, but we should remember he was from another time...
 "Yes!" Yelled the manager again. "Good old fashioned bigotry, from a historical figure! I mean, look how sad he is! How embarrassed! He's here to sign his work, and no-one turned up!"
 Shakespeare, catching on to what was being said, sighed and slumped head in hands.
 "I mean, give him some company at least! All his friends and family are long dead, and he's lost in a world he doesn't understand!"
 At this, Shakespeare began to cry. After a few minutes, he seemed to stop, and the manager began jabbing him with a stick. Feeling sorry for him, I gave him a few pieces of candy and a fiver, then headed home. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, men shouldn't play God in bookshops. It only leads to upset authors.

An unnecessary act of aggression

I had heard worrying news, dear readers: Over on the relaunched Parody Files, they claim to use the phrase "fire-spewing" more than any other blog. Being my annoying self, I intent to challenge them on this. Of course, there are several flaws to this masterful, entirely necessary plan.
 1) I'm lazy. So very lazy.
 2) I'm easily distracted, sidetracked, and bribed. As such, I have already forgotten the start of this blog
 3) Seriously. I don't remember what I was talking about, and I'm too lazy to re-read one paragraph.
 4) Was it about Starlings? I think it may have been...
 5) OK, I hired a homeless man to re-read the blog to me, and I'm back on track. My third 5th problem is that they have 5 writers to my one. They may also be funnier than me, but I was too lazy to read their bios, so they could be unfunny, or tinpot dictators. This leaves me at a distinct disadvantage. But really, who cares. I'm not serious, I'm just being a dick about strangers.
 If anyone wishes to issue me a challenge over the use of words, I accept!

Oh, and can someone send help? The tramp is still here. He keeps winking at me and rubbing his nipples... I hope he doesn't breath fire...