There was a truck outside. I could see it...

Image via WikipediaIt had just pulled up outside my house, all big and truck-like. A large, moustached man in a cap was seated in the driver's seat, and as I watched, he began to eat a banana in a most un-erotic fashion. After a few minutes, he finished and discarded the skin on the pavement to cause hilarity and mayhem at a later date. Stepping out of the truck with a daintiness unusual for a man of his girth, he opened the back and began to remove boxes.

 I began to fill with dread. Max, safely tucked up in bed in his own house, returned to youth - was this his doing? Steeling myself, I waited for man and box to reach the door.

But no! The man, moustache quivering in the wind, began to take out more boxes, stacking them by the van. In total, he unloaded around 30. Then, back bent with strain, he began the slow task of moving them to my doorstep. After a long, long period of time, he finished this task and fetched a clipboard from the front of the van. Looking at it casually, he approached the house. Then, suddenly, he stopped and stared in disbelief. His eyes went from the clipboard, to the flashing neon sign with my address on it, back to clipboard.
 He began to sweat. His moustache trembled. But he pulled himself up, rolling back his sleeves and fixing his face into steely determination. He ran the doorbell.

 "Sign here, Ms. Gunderson" He barked quickly.
I looked at the name and address on the clipboard. Miss Ann Gunderson, that wasn't me. I scanned down the address, taking particular interest in the fact Ms. Gunderson's home was actually a castle, and that it was in Sweden.
 "That's not me. I'm sorry, these aren't for me."
He looked at me. Indignantly.
 "I recons they are, Miss! I recons you'll be signing there, and I shall unpack and assemble these pieces in your bood-wair, as requested, Miss!"
 "I'm terribly sorry, but I really don't want these parcels. I haven't ordered them, they belong to someone else." Who is in Sweden. "I can't in good conscience take them."
 "Then perhaps, Miss, I shall telephone the constabulary. They might be taking of a dim view of such goings-on as these."
 "Fine." I replied. "I'll wait indoors."

I returned and watched through the window as the delivery driver paid a passing boy to deliver a letter to the local police station. After a few minutes, a police car arrived, and two officers got out. I watched as they listened and the man explained. I watched, with interest, their faces as the story - accompanied by hand-gestures - went on. After a few more minutes, he began to prod one of the policemen. After a few more minutes, he prodded too hard.
 I watched as they bundled him into the back of the police car and drove off. The boxes were still outside, blocking my view. As time passed, I realised they were blocking out the sun as well.
 Well, it looks like I won't be photosynthesizing tonight.

Controversial Boardgame Encourages Unethical Behaviour

With the economic world currently in turmoil, encouraging the monopolising of business and property hardly seems responsible. However, this is just what Hasbro proposes in their controversial boardgame, Monopoly.

Image via Wikipedia

The aim of the game is simple: by controlling squares on the board, which represent streets or public works, the player can illicit money from other competitors. The winner is the last player with money left, or the richest if the game is played against the clock.

Gameplay is also simple, downplaying the complexity of real business. The player first selects a pawn to represent them in the city. These pawns include figures such as dogs, thimbles or tophats, seem to suggest the player is not human, and lends the game a perverse, magic undertone unsuitable for younger players. Having selected their pieces, the players role dice to decide how far they move on the board. Most pieces on the board represent streets in the city, and players can decide to buy these properties if they land on them. If they land on a property owned by another player, however, they must pay that player rent. Players can raise the rent to astronomical amounts by building more houses on properties they own, thus hoping to run other players out of business faster.

Read more: http://www.bukisa.com/articles/336883_controversial-boardgame-encourages-unethical-behaviour#ixzz0xwV7z9iR

Image via Wikipedia

There was an old man, sitting by the fire. A pale rug tucked into his chin, long folds and creases resembling his aged face snaked away into his seat. He rocked slowly, listing to the faint chimes of the wireless, turned to full volume. Outside, a nurse knocked. She waited, then knocked again while entering. She brought a young man behind her, his face gleaming with youthful exuberance.
 "You have a guest Max", she explained
 "Are you my grandson?" Max asked the young man.
 "No," I replied. "Not quite."
I don't know why I said that. I wasn't nearly his grandson, after all. After fussing for a few moments, the nurse left us alone, and I poured Max a drink. He drank it slowly, a few drops trickled down his chin and dropped onto his blanket. As they spread out, the colour returned to the aged knitwear. When I looked back to Max, his youthful countenance looked back at me. He smiled, turning his hand this way and that in front of him.
 "Wow, thanks for that!" He exclaimed. "Are you my grandson?"
My smiled faded away. Throwing the rug over Max's head, I threw him out the window, and jumped after. Bundling him into my waiting van, we fled before the guards could catch us.
 I'll never know why Max was in that place, or what they wanted of him, but I can live with that for now. Behind us, the sirens started and the giant old man burst through the wall again, smashing aside the cars in the car park and ripping up lamp-posts.
 But that wasn't my problem any more. I look to the future now.
 My show's on at nine, for one thing

Award! Award! Award!

I'm living the dream! I got this award from the mysterious Homemaker Man over at Musings from the Big Pink. Not visited there before? Well, you should. Or I'll eat you.
 So, I gather what I'm meant to do is write seven things about me that I haven't written before, then pass the award on to some other unsuspecting mug. Here goes:

1. I'm not really fire retardant. Despite my claims of fireproofyness, I actually burn to death as easily as the next man.
2. I'm not a great writer. Sorry if you've just arrived here for the first time, seeking Wilde or Tolstoy. Often, I make up words like fireproofyness.
3. I would like to sing. But I can't. I'm not just saying that out of modesty, I have a terrible voice, and cannot carry a tune.
4. I'm pregnant. No, not really. That was a lie, and a pretty unimaginative one at that. I apologise.
5. I enjoy the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger's arms in films. But who doesn't enjoy a good point-and-stare session at Arnie's arm-melons on the silver screen?
6. I distrust the Spanish. I'm not racist, but I enjoy judging entire groups of people based on where they're from.
7. I don't like to answer the door or the phone, especially if I'm on my own. I meet too many weird men in public toilets, and I'm scared that they might mind out where I live.

 So now I pass this on, I think. I'll send it to Todd over at Iced Tea and Sarcasm. I hope this doesn't cause constipation. If you've not visited his blog before, why not? Make a day of it, bring me back a present.

 

Oh, and if you're a new reader who got here from one end of the award spectrum or the other, say hi. Stay a while, eat my food, make me uncomfortable on my own blog. Yum!

It's nearly all over, don't worry.

Image by B Tal via FlickrDawn's early light caressed our tired faces. We'd started climbing early in the morning, guided by the light of the moon or something, arriving on the final plateau several minutes ago. In front of us, the fountain. It was like a fountain of some sort, with water coming out of the top. In fact, the water was spraying out of the upturned hosepipe of a stone gnome. Nearby, other statuettes of the little people frolicked happily - one gnome tricked another with a joke flower, dispensing splashes of youth-restoring water in his friend's astonished face. Another gnome, his trousers dropped, engaged in an activity not fit for the eyes of ladies or the young. A third dispensed waters from a tiny watering can, and so on. The overall effect was one of stupidity. Despite the many healing abilities the water could offer, I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to destroy the ridiculous fountain in front of us.
 Around me, the party gathered. Looking sadly at the scene in front of us, they captured their fleeting thoughts and prepared to talk.
 "That. Is ridiculous."
I looked at Pinball Ed. He was right, of course, but I didn't like the way he punctuated his sentence.
 "Wait!" The Red Baron yelled, "Where is ze Rat-like one?"
Ze. I thought to myself. You're just saying "ze" instead of "the" occasionally. You're not German at all. Then my anger dissipated as I probed his exclamation - Sergi was no-where to be seen.
 Adventurer Ed flicked open the holster to his revolver, pulling the antique weapon out and searching behind nearby rocks. I approached the fountain, it seemed a good idea to see if it worked.
 I reached out my cupped hands.
 I scooped up some water.
 Then I drunk it and got young again, and things began to go back to normal.
 Emerging from behind a rock, Sergi approached us, bearing a treacherous-looking tray of smoothies. Quickly, Adventurer Ed turned and began to take aim.
 "I found a smoothie bar" Sergi called out, his happiness suddenly evaporating as a bullet punctured his chest. Stumbling, clutching dramatically, he reached the edge of the cliff. Adventurer Ed took aim and fired again, sending the dirty, foreign-looking chap to his death. We all cheered, then bottled up some water and went home.

Why am I still doing this?

Image via Wikipedia

"Didn't you used to write a blog? One with short, unconnected stories?"
 Pinball Ed, his eyes aglow with curiosity, and possibly a little dysentery, was literally on the edge of his seat. Well, rock. In his aglowed eyes, his curiosity burned like a forest-fire, his question the last monkey to escape, filled with wonder and horror.
 "Yes." I replied. It was cold, the nights seemed longer the higher up the mountain we got, and my nipples had hardened and chaffed on my top. I didn't feel like talking, and I was still old and my hearing failed like the brakes on a car that had had the breaks cut so the breaks failed like the hearing of an old man up a mountain.
 "What happened?" He asked, his eyes still curiously lit up.
 "I started to write stories that spanned several days. It was fun at first, I enjoyed the change. It let me talk about selling oranges in the desert, and bears. I liked to talk about bears, back then."
 I turned from him melodramatically, the cruel wind whipping the tear from my eye and hurling it from my face into the maelstrom around us.
 "The stories though. They got out of hand. Too long, spiralling. Strange and stupid."
 "How?" He asked.
We were on a mountain, I was old and we were searching for the fountain of youth. All that had happened was that Max, one fateful day, answered the door. Poor, stupid Max. On these cold mountains, even his wrinkled face was one I missed. I wondered what he was doing, while I scaled mountains to bring back waters to restore our youth.
 Around me, pterodactyls flew in the winds. They didn't come near anymore, we'd shown them off at least. There never used to be pterodactyls...

A small update

Image by sir_watkyn via FlickrThe fountain gleamed. I'd never really seen anything gleam before, not like this. The gleamingness of the whole situation was made all the more impressive by distance. The distance, in this case, was the same distance as one would have to travel to climb a large mountain. This was because the Fountain of Youth was at the top of a large mountain, the bottom of which we were gently fondling.

 The rain had eased up as we approached the centre of the island. Falling around us lightly, forming a fine mist, the waters no longer troubled us. We had climbed a little of the mountain, finding a flat area and setting up camp for the night. Sergi had retreated into a corner, his face not quite hidden from the light of the campfire, planning some foreign trick to betray us for his own benefit. In the morning, provided we haven't been rolled of a cliff edge or force-fed Marmite, we will continue the trek. With any luck, we can traverse most of the mountain tomorrow. But I still feel worried. Perhaps it's nothing, just a nagging doubt I'm slowing the group down.

 Damn my elderly incontinence. Damn it!

In the jungle, the mighty jungle...

Image via WikipediaThere are fucking dinosaurs!
 Musical numbers aside though, our situation looked dire. Fleeing from the dinosaur of dinosauric proportions and attributes, we had made our way through a vast tract of jungle. Eventually, chancing upon a mountain ridge, we had taken shelter in a small cave, the entrance to which was too small for an unlubricated dinosaur to enter. With the rains still battering down, and the the threat of being battered and eaten still raining down in our brains, we decided to spend the night in the cave. It seemed safe, and a good thing for adventurers to do. However, as the sun rose and we awoke uneaten, unmolested and unfit, we find ourselves unable to find our location on the map.
 Shouting in Welsh, further throwing doubts on his apparent Barony of the colour red, the Red Baron made his anger clear on the subject. Sergi, his ratlike, untrustworthy foreign features (I'm still old, I have to be a bit racist and not realise that it's racism) contorted into thought, retreated to a corner like a rat. A foreign rat.
 Myself, wizard Ed and Adventurer Ed exited the cave and climbed to higher ground, hoping to survey the area. The others, after finishing their tantrums, followed us. We surveyed, but did not learn.
 The jungle spread out around us, vanishing into the horizon. Remembering the island had been only a mile-and-a-half wide from the plane, it was certainly impressive view. Adventurer Ed shook his head, his compass held in one hand and the map in the other.
 "Something's wrong with the compass, can't get a direction."
He was right. The compass, while very ornate and shiny, was actually a pocket-watch. Not for the first time, I began to doubt the competence of our expedition leader. Nearby, holding the other copy of the map, Sergi poked at something in his bag. I don't know what it was, but it was probably insidious.
 After a few seconds, he raised his head and pointed off to the right.
 "That way."
We asked him how he knew. He replied he had Sat Nav. This didn't make much sense, but we decided to go with it. Picking up our things, we headed in the direction Sergi pointed, towards the setting moon.

As promised, 4D porn

As you can see, the set-up remains unchanged. However, this time, the housewife's house - to which she is wifed - is made of space, and features a 3D image on it, taking care of the other dimensions. This seems to take care of everything. You may be wondering why this picture lacks a second dimension - it's still the depth thing. It's a metaphor that has potential, and I'm not giving up on it.

1D Porn

Following on from my article the other day, I present to you some 1-Dimensional pornography. As you can see, both the characters and the location are lacking in dimensions. Bringing new meaning to the idea of porn stories lacking depth, I've literally removed any depth from the piece. Soon, I plan to tackle the complex issue of 4-dimensional porn.
 But why are you listening to this? The young pizza delivery boy is just about to suggest an alternative method of payment to the buxom housewife. It's probably credit or debit card, although there's a minimum purchase price of $20 for these payment methods.

Incidentally, why is Zemanta suggesting "child pornography" as a label for this? Both stick figures are over 18, I'll assure you. Well, they're actually only a couple of minutes old. But they represent over-18 year olds...