Maxfall

                              Nazis aren't funny.                              Cover of Downfall"What've you got there Max?"

 The sun, gentle and benign in the sky was shining down on us. Max and I were seated under the azure openness of a clear summer's day, sipping tea on the veranda I imagined to be part of my garden for this setting. We'd been here for half an hour or so, but I had taken my time asking Max what he was carrying in his briefcase. He didn't usually carry a briefcase, you'll be surprised to hear, and I was gripped with the grim foreboding that accompanied almost every visit Max made to my humble abode.

 "What? Oh, this? It's a script." Max replied.

 "Ah." I offered. Max had a habit of writing film scripts, play scripts, musicals and so on, and brining them to me. They weren't, technically speaking, usually badly written. The problem was they could be a little... offensive. Well, very offensive. And I had to explain, in great detail, exactly why Max's so-called family-friendly screenplays would offend a drunken toaster.

 "And what's it called?"

 "Black Hitler." Max replied.

 I nodded. I took the script. I read the script.

 "This is, what? Just the film Downfall?"

 "Yea." Max replied.

 I nodded. It was basically Downfall, except everyone in the Third Reich was inexplicably black. To Max's credit, he hadn't written any offensive dialogue, or added a rap soundtrack. Indeed, it appeared just to be an aestetic thing - the whole cast was to be black. Of course, at no point did Max tackle the varied problems this would cause to Nazi ideology. In reality, he'd just printed the script for Downfall of the internet, and added a note that said "Everyone should be played by black actors."

 I put the script down on the table and turned to my own briefcase.

 "What've you got there?" Max asked.

 I didn't answer. I just opened the briefcase and turned on my portable shredder. The sound of paper screaming out filled the afternoon air, as the sun watched happily.

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...

Well, it's what everyone's talking about...

So, Charlie Brooker and Konnie Huq are to get married. I know this is a newsworthy story, because at least two people I follow Tweeted about it, and it's in the Daily Mail. (I realise this probably means little to non-British readers. Who cares, this is a blog. I'll do the important things: getting angry about issues that don't affect you, and mentioning Hitler)
 "The most unlikely showbiz wedding?" is the headline the Mail runs this story under. Well, no, probably not. Discarding many other showbiz weddings that are or were unlikely and actually occurred, I'd say the most unlikely romance would be between the reanimated remains of Marlon Brando and a horse. The Mail, unable to understand how two people who seem different can possibly form a romance, continues with several comparisons - Miss Huq, of course, rose to fame hosting children's Show Blue Peter, giving her a nice, family-friendly appearance. Brooker, in comparison, says some nasty things about TV shows and celebrities, using words you wouldn't say to your grandmother.
 So what we have here is in fact, a simple case of two people who have opposing screen personas. Wow, how could these two people ever get along? Actually, I don't think the Daily Mail likes Charlie. It does go on about his "foul-mouthed" shows a lot, and his dropping out of college, without once mentioning that he won Columnist of the Year at the 2009 British Press Awards, for instance.
 So, to once again distance myself from the Daily Mail in whatever way possible, I offer the best of luck to Charlton and Kanak, and to anyone else out there getting married.
 Unless you're a Nazi of course. In which case, I'll have to borrow some words from Brooker himself, and tell you to go away.
 And die. You're worse than Hitler. God, you people make me sick...

Once again, it's been a few days...

I must apologise for my lack of contact. I'm sorry if anyone got worried and went to look for me in the desert again, but I've been right here all along. Not right here, obviously. This is a box I'm typing in on the Internet, and it doesn't really have a location. Anyway, I've been caught up in the excitement of the General Election. Not only has it been, like all politics, exciting and bear-filled, but I've had my work cut out in other ways. Primarily, explaining the British electoral system to the Mexicans, who still seem to be living with me. Max has had several days of fun regarding the fact we have a hung parliament as well. I am yet to hear one good joke on the subject, I must admit...
 While the overall result was something of a victory for the moderate right, it was nice to see Britain's far right parties get totally demolished. Of particular delight was the BNP's complete failure to gain a seat, and the subsequent loss of all of their local government places. To my foreign readers, I'm hoping the British National Party lack the influence to be know to you. Let's just say they're Nazis, led by a vile little man that looks like a frog poured into a suit.
 In other news, I still have many, many oranges. Would anyone like one?

Snow White and the 7 racist dwarves

Ding-dong went the doorbell ominously. (Yea, doorbell stories are back, and that was a shit sentence, sorry)
I looked up from my soup, but did nothing. Maybe whoever it was would go away if I ignored them. Of course, that never works, and it was foolish to entertain the though. So, reluctantly, I got out of the soup and wiped myself down with a towel.
 "Yes?" I demanded upon opening the door. I first imagined I would be a strange sight - wearing only a towel, and with tomato and coriander dripping from my hair - but what I saw before me was shocking more even so! (I'm fucking with you now, not even I write that badly) In front of me were 7 dwarves, who at first appeared to be your typical long-bearded Tolkienesque types. However, on closer inspection, I noticed they were wearing replica Nazi uniforms.
 "Ah, good morning!" One announced. I assumed he was their leader -  A small toothbrush moustache was sat under his nose. To achieve this, he had shaved away the rest of his beard-moustache-thing, so he resembled a Hitler-coconut. As he spoke, there was some discussion behind him as to whether the group liked red people or not.
 "Can I help you?" I asked. Frankly, I didn't want to help, but there were a lot of them, and they had axes.
 "We'd like to take this opportunity tell you about some of our fantastic clothing items, my good man. Here, take a catalogue."
I took the catalogue. Flicking through it, I saw some rather nice items for dwarves - mainly chain-mail, with some plate armour thrown in for good measure.
 "Now, you may have noticed that these items are not all, ahem... In your size. But the helmets should fit, you know?"
I nodded knowingly. I continued to nod knowingly for several minutes, but the dwarves didn't leave. Eventually, I felt the need to ask:
 "What's with the Nazism?"
 "Ah, yes. Well, I'm sorry about this, it's company policy. It's not something I personally agree with, but many of the older members of the Dwarven community still hold on to the old racial purity views - You know, nasty, anti-goblin stuff: "Dwarf Fortresses for Dwarves", "Decapitate Orcs on Thursdays", that sort of thing. Anyway, we'll leave the pamphlet with you - If you make an order, make sure to mention me. Clive's the name!".
With that, they turned and left. I'm glad I got a catalogue, I can burn it and use the fire to re-heat my soup. How contrived my life seems nowadays...