What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Merry/Happy (insert religious/commercial festival of your choice here) to all, and to all a good night

I'm taking a break (ahahahahahahahahaha...as if that's not what I've been doing all this time) and returning after the New Year with a minor site redesign, a resolution to get up orf my arse and actually DO stuff here more regularly, and The Killer Spoon To Beat All Killer Spoons. La Cuillère De La Mort Royale.


Oh, and I'm going to Hell. Literally, probably, when my liff is over, but also in this story arc - which is now less like trying to pass a bus tyre through a knotted urethra and more like trying to shit a breeze block past a handful of engorged haemorrhoids. I think that's an improvement. If not, you'll be able to hear the screams from nearby countries.

Be well. Have a good religious observance/buyfest. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Don't do anything I would do either. Just don't do anything, okay?


Monday, November 24, 2008

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

The Ads they'd love to make #1: Dishwasher detergent

You wouldn't wipe your behind with a piece of shit, would you?

Relax. It's self-expanding insulating foam painted brown.

You wouldn't brush your teeth with a dead TB infected badger either, would you?

 Okay Stop relaxing. It IS a dead badger

So why are you still washing dishes in your filthy dishwasher, you base creatures?

Your dishwasher contains more disease than 12th century Europe. FACT!

Yuck! Positively plague-ridden!

A dirty dishwasher will probably explode while you sleep, killing you all in your beds. FACT!

Cower in fear!

New! Improved! Spanglox Dishwasher Detergent will not only make your glassware sparkle more than a thousand stars viewed by a migraine sufferer with compound eyes through a kaleidoscope full of diamonds, but every box purchased counts toward your reincarnation as a human being (or at least a high order of primate) no matter what heinous crimes you may have perpetrated in this life*.

But don't take our word for it...

"My cutlery shone so brightly that the glare transformed my husband into a Hiroshima Shadow. Thanks Spanglox!" Mrs. P Watson, Dover

"I now have to wear a welding mask when emptying my dishwasher. I'm so happy." Doug, Walmington-on-Sea

"I don't even need to eat any more. I just look at my super-clean plates for satisfaction and sustenance." Mrs R., Mexborough

"Spanglox products definitely do not make us die. At all." Millions of aquatic creatures

Spanglox! A family business in the business of making your family less busy

*Failure to maintain a regime of using our products may cause dandruff, molten lava kidney stones and depression in kittens worldwide.

I meant one of your Saturn days. Anyway, here's some filler above. I'm working my way toward animation and video. Scheduled for 2024 with a good wind behind me. 'Pologizing soon. I promise.

[My apologies to Terry Pratchett for the (mis)use of the Weatherwax sign. Don't sue me. Ah fuck it, you've probably forgotten by now anyway.]

Monday, November 17, 2008

Just so you know - I did a Weatherwax...well...sort of...



Explanations and apologies forthcoming within one of your earth days. Here's a hint. It's something do do with uselessness...

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Reflections on a particularly unstable and one-sided relationship

Another irreparable breakdown

Oh God, look at you.

You’re a mess

I knew this was coming for some time

but why did it have to be now?

Not now of all times.

You get like this all the time now.

I hate it when you just sit there.

Not saying anything.

Not doing anything.

I can’t communicate with you any more.


I don’t mistreat you do I?

I constantly give you things.

Expensive things

And you look better now than you ever did.

I know you’re always busy.

I know that you need your own space,

and you seem to have the right

to change at any time.


You’re just so bloody unreliable.

Always forgetting things.

Important things.

And now you’ve gone and done this again.

Well, I’ve tried as hard as I can to save this,

but it isn’t going to work, is it?

Goodbye, you bitch.


Click here to restart your computer, eh?


Where’s that Windows CD?



[See what I has done there? I is all highbrow now. All just because I couldn't save a document, and the computer locked up]

Well it beats a fucking picture doesn't it? Google thinks my sister site is spam. Boo. Little do they know she's as tough as nails, and a nasty drunk to boot.

[Here's a quandary for all you Humor-blogs.com visitors...if you vote me down I shall only become stronger. If you vote me up against my wishes, I only become strangely aroused and wriggle in my seat a bit in a mildly disgusting manner. What to do? What to do?]

Sunday, October 5, 2008

Farming With Dynamite - found stuff, not a band

Hello. This is a picture of the first page of Du Pont Chemicals 1910 pamphlet 'Farming with dynamite'. I saw it at Fourmilab a while back and greedily, selfishly chuckled to myself - hugging the concept to my chest like some Gollum of the Internet. Now I want you to see the whole thing as well as the rest of John Walker, founder of Autodesk, Inc. and co-author of AutoCAD's unassuming but superb site. I use Home Planet to find stars and satellites and suchlike. Also to watch the tiny moon move over the manse. I had all the windows bricked up you see, in readiness for a new Window Tax. Fourmilab has articles on hacker diets, books, anagrams. And software coming out the wazoo. Whatever one of those is.

Farming with dynamite cover

Fourmilab has nothing whatsoever to do with Fermilab. Don't go looking for high energy physics there.

This is the kind of thing that Pointing North's sister site (already set up so you can't pinch it, you fiends) will be featuring. I know that after my outraged rants on web-trawlers just linking to stuff they found makes my doing it now quite cheeky to say the least. It makes me the cunt that I am to say the most. This will also make me some kind of bitch - or beatch - or biotch - or beer hatch - or something. The site is called The Supermodel Overlord Hierarchy, and will contain stuff about free stuff that is clogging up my hard drive and my bookmarks and my mind. It is unlikely to be funny - but it may be useful/helpful/illuminating. I signed an NDA with the real SOH, but I'm always one to push my fucking luck whenever I can.

Nothing to see here. Move along. Move along.

There's no point me adding the traditional and necessary link to Humor-blogs.com here, but I am a creature of habit. This will no doubt help the authorities find me if I ever get off my arse and start serial-killing]

Friday, October 3, 2008

Somalia - It's Africa's pirate hook

This is the kind of thing that happens when I remember that I have a graphics tablet in the desk drawer...and a GCE 'O' level (grade B) in Art...and time on my hands...and I experiment with painting a dry wipe marker moustache onto my top lip. You deserved this for voting me up at Humor-blogs, you sods. It wasn't reverse psychology, damn it!


Original image/map by the Central Intelligence Agency of the US, apparently. You learn something new every day.

original image in likkle for comparison - and so you can see just how useless at this I really am. This took four fucking hours. The dry-wipe giggles didn't help of course.


I know. I know. Stop trying to fucking do art. Stick to words magnetite. You can barely manage with those fuckers anyway. This whole wearing two hats thing just isn't going to work. You are undoubtedly a cock of the highest order.

(A sample of my internal voice there, folks. This is why I silence him with the gin...and now with the dry wipe marker 'tashes)

I can heartily recommend the Sanford EXPO  Bold Color Dry Erase marker. (Certified AP non-toxic - conforms to ASTM D4236)

[update: It's actually quite difficult to remove from skin. I understand that this is because skin has different properties to the average whiteboard. They should probably mention that on the barrel of the pen itself. My recommendation still stands though]

[If I'd wanted to be highly ranked at Humor-blogs.com, I'd have pretended to be a woman. I don't know whether to thank you all or strangle you all. Both I think. First the stranglings, then the thankings]

Sunday, September 28, 2008

The give and take of giving directions

Why is it that in this day and age - when you can practically get a sat-nav free in your fucking breakfast cereal - do we still get people asking us for directions when we are happily minding our own business pootling about on our own two feet, without need of mechanical aid?

Even in the pouring rain. Car pulls up. You momentarily have a flashback to childhood when your parents told you never to speak to strange people in cars, but you shrug it off. You're a grown-up now, and - as far you are aware - haven't angered any mafia-types in your locale. You are not a sleeper agent for a now-defunct spy network. You are unlikely to be a prostitute. A car pulling up next to you is therefore probably not going to be the precursor to a kidnapping, a silenced bullet in your treacherous heart; or an opportunity for you to make a quick couple of quid out of some married businessman from Stirling, in town for a couple of days for a conference on waste management. Okay, maybe that last one - Stirling isn't exactly the French Riviera so any freaky fun the locals can get when out of town can't really be begrudged them - but it is usually just some cunt asking for directions.

I ventured out from the manse yesterday, briefly - as always. I loathe the idea of having food, toilet rolls, newspapers and suchlike fucking brought to me like I am some God-King in a jungle palace deep, deep in the heart of a lush, lush rainforest filled with the calls of strange, strange creatures. It pisses off the tiny remnant of hunter-gatherer left within this civilised, pussified shell. I itch to get out and bring SOMETHING home. An atavistic call from the hindbrain, maybe. Whatever it is - if I don't do it I get irritable. Even though going out just makes me bloody angry most of the time as well.

So I perform a balancing act of efficiency versus laziness, of need versus want. I plan my hunting trip to some extent. I know where the shops that sell the stuff I want to buy are. A typical man, my purpose is to get there, get the goods, get home...job done. If I have to go somewhere else I find out where it is and when it is open. I am directed. I am focused. Like the arrow of shopping loosed into the heart of the stag of consumer need. Straight and true. Pretentious, poncey and prone to claptrap - I'll give you that, sunshine...I'll give you that; especially with that last sentence about arrows and stags - but straight and true nevertheless.

So when a car worth around 25 grand pulls up next to me and the window rolls down, and the driver leans across his wife slightly to ask for directions to a house number in a residential street, like so: "Can you tell me how to get to..." I noticed one little detail about the car, and something inside me snaps - just a little. I probably shouldn't listen to Bill Hicks on my mp3 player during these little trips out - things never go well for the rest of humanity when I do. Glorious, clever, misanthropic dark poet that Bill was, he's not conducive to good-natured helpfulness toward strangers who couldn't be arsed to think about what they were doing.

The first thing that went through my mind was: 'What makes you fucking think I even know where I'm going, let alone where you're going?' I did not say that however. That would have been rude. What I said was: "Yeah, but...How many moons does Jupiter have?"

A palpable wave of puzzlement came out of the window at me. I was enjoying this.

"What?" he asked in a voice pitched higher than when he first spoke.  I repeated the question. He shook his head, looked at his wife and asked me again if I knew how to find the place he wanted. I told him that yes, I did - but I had questions too. Burning ones.

"What was Captain Mainwaring's first name in Dad's Army?" I asked him. I wasn't being an abstruse cunt just for the sake of it, mind you. The little detail that I had noticed was the sucker-mark left on the inside of his windscreen where his sat-nav ought to have been. He asked me again if I knew how to get to his destination, his voice now becoming angry.

"Yes," I replied with a smile, which was directed toward his wife, who was holding in a giggle. "If you can tell me the day on which your wedding anniversary falls this year."

Well, he couldn't have pulled away fast enough. I swear that there were marks on the road from the tyres and the scent of burnt rubber in the air. As I pressed play on the mp3 player I saw, further up the road, his car pull up by a young couple walking hand-in-hand. As the dark poet's half-mocking, half-caring tones started up again I hoped that the answer he got from them was in the form of a question.

I came home with forty cigarette, the ingredients for a variety of omelettes, assorted alcoholic beverages - and a steam cleaner. Well, they do say the journey is better than the destination half the time. I shall probably go out again tomorrow.

[updated to linkify Bill Hicks, Stirling, Henry Kuttner and Holly Willoughby. Getting the hang of this tech-know-low-gee, bit-by-tiny-bit. Baby steps old boy. Baby steps]

As well as listening to Bill Hicks far too much for anyone's own good, I have been reading Henry Kuttner's The Proud Robot - short stories about a drunken inventor (who can never remember how, or even why,  he worked when he finally sobers up) and his very, very, very irritating robot. That bloke never really stood a chance, did he?

I have also been forced to watch far too much reality TV - specifically The X-Factor - by people who supposedly care about me. I'm not so sure. When told that I could just watch Holly Willoughby for eye-candy ogling purposes, and simply ignore everything else, I replied that it would be like visiting an art gallery full of beautiful works - but having to stand waist deep in shit and used syringes while doing so. I'm surprised I didn't key that chap's car, to be honest. I really am.

[Just a thought - if I manage to get voted down to last place on Humor-blogs.com, I'll have to petition them to put a 'LAST' link on the members list page so I don't have to click through all the mere failures and half-arses who just stopped updating and who aren't attempting my epic Lucifer-like fall from grace. Bollocks. Now I need an 'UnDigg this' and a 'StumbledAwayFrom' button. More fucking work.]

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Bagsies Kirk! - The end to violence worldwide

Let me explain bagsies Kirk.

To 'bagsies', 'bagseye' or (presumably the progenitor term) 'bags I' something is to stake a claim on it, especially when choosing from a selection. Specifically used in English children's games of make-believe to choose your favourite character. Got that? Right, I can go on.

In the Shatner-era Star Trek episodes, he would frequently get into a fight with some saboteur, brain-washed compatriot or alien interloper. Even though there was apparently an inexhaustible supply of security officers there to prevent this kind of thing from happening. Regardless of how these mano-a-mano bouts came to be - they would always be settled with Kirk having a tear at the neckline of his tunic and a little bit of a cut on his face.  No more injured than the average old lady wrestling for a cracked teapot with her best friend at a jumble sale.

In any fight, be it knife, gun or fisticuffs - I'd like to bagsies Kirk. The tailoring repairs may get a little costly, but you'll never see me on life-support weakly asking all the relatives I've pissed off over the years for that kidney they weren't using. If this works on the individual level then maybe, just maybe, we can scale it up.

Chess is apparently a symbolic representation of war. Well, if a lengthy game like chess can sit in place of horrific bloodshed and destruction, then why not Bagsies Kirk? I see all the members of the United Nations filing in to sit at their little desks, behind their little nameplates. They make sure their translator can be heard and then they - as one man - cry BAGSIES KIRK! - tear their necklines slightly and nick their cheeks with a pair of UN branded nail scissors. Plasters are on hand of course, and to speed things up they all have velcro fastenings on their clothing.

Hey Presto! The business of keeping the peace is concluded and it's still only ten past fucking nine in the morning.

Everyone can go and have some cakes or buy the wife a present or something.

[The only downside to this is that I may at some time have to engage in a disturbingly homoerotic duel with Ricardo Montalban. I suppose that's the price you pay for assured safety in today's angry, violent world.]

Nothing serious to stick in this bit this time around. Apparently there's been some sort of world financial collapse or something; and some little country is having an election. Well Great Grandpa Magnetite made sure we would all be taken care of when he installed hydroelectrics in 1899 - and I've never voted on anything more important than the names of the pets on Blue Peter. 'Fucking Cunt Cat' never got picked, to my eternal disappointment.

Anyway, I've noticed that almost everyone else links to shit on the Intertubeweb instead of coming up with their own crap to spout about - so I'm going to see just how good the suspension on that particular bandwagon is. Here's a link to an early Woody Allen stand-up routine in which he shoots a moose. This may even be topical in some twisted way. Don't expect it to fucking happen again.

[That's right - keep voting me down on Humor-blogs.com - it only fucking encourages me]

Friday, September 12, 2008

Space, God and porn

Imagine, for just a moment, that Erich von Däniken was totally, bang-on right about our origins and the extraterrestrial nature of God. Imagine God IS a spaceman. It might explain why he never seems to be very quick on the ball when it comes to helping out by preventing misery, war or famine. The Bible tells us that God is Light.

Well, on that basis if God lives, say,  23 light years away from us (Fomalhaut is about 24.2 LY - I reckon that's where he lives. It's just as likely as any bloody where else) he'll see Bob Geldof and Midge Ure and Band Aid pretty soon. The first time round of course. So God says “Look at the state of that place! I’d better do something about this, quick-smart.”

“Ah, but then there’s the 50 year round trip, and by the time I get there...”

We are chucking all our radio and television signals out into space, in all directions, all the time - willy-nilly. So it's only a matter of time before he sees what we’ve been up to all these years and it won’t be long before he waxes WELL wrathful.

He’s there in his celestial throne and it all gets too much for him. He shoots to his feet, and drop kicks the remote into a nearby star , making Jesus jump from his cross-legged position in front of the telly.

“That’s it! I’ve seen enough! It’s not as if they’re a bad lot. I quite like Moonlighting, Brookside, and Scooby-Doo. Well, before Scrappy anyway – but it’s the wall to wall porn that I can’t take anymore.”

“I’ve seen Adam’s children getting stuck into every creature under the Sun. Even the weirdest ones I could think up and a Granddad can only take so much!”

“Holy Ghost! Make 25 years worth of sandwiches, grab the kid and get in the Car. I’m getting changed into my Smiting gear and then we’re off!”

And Jesus says “Where are we going Dad?”

God says “Earth, son. Earth.” and Jesus just puts his head in his hands.

Yes, that's right. I'm still banging on about PROTEIN FOLDING. Don't tell me you have something better to do, because you're fucking here reading this. I wouldn't worry though, the next post will probably have an advert for edible knickers or something. For the moment though, why don't you just humour me - and go and have a look at how you can help fight some of mankind's present horrors. Come on, wouldn't you want to live in a world where there is no Alzheimer's, Huntingdon's disease, CJD..etcetera? The fact that you can help save humanity from it's own wayward building blocks while sitting on your arse must appeal to you.

http://folding.stanford.edu/English/Main - Help some boffins to help you and your loved ones. Go on, you know it makes sense.

[Paid to strangle kittens, but only on a Tuesday by: Humor-blogs.com]

Saturday, September 6, 2008

DNA, I hate you - so this is a torch song for Ribonucleic acid

Allow me to introduce to you two people. Except they're not actually people. They are in fact chains of nucleotides, fundamental to life on earth, but let's go back to looking at them as people for a while.

Denny is a fat, lazy bastard who thinks he knows everything but is mostly just full of shit. Renee is his little sister, her light is hidden under a bushel. A bushel that stands in the massive shadow of her torpid brother. She's lithe, clever and secretly the star of the family.

Trouble is, Denny is the media darling. His name is bandied about everywhere from taverns (even though they haven't existed since about the nineteenth fucking century - it's a PUB; if you must do so you can call it an inn or a bar - mention the word tavern around me again and we'll see just how much you love archaic things by allowing me to stick a couple of leeches on your eyeballs, and letting me stuff half a lime up your arse*. Jesus, you might as well call it a taphouse and be done with it) to Parliament to the press to bloody car advertisements.

Everyone is kissing DNA's backside like doing so bestows one with eternal life or something - which of course is promised. I am not, I should point out, one of those who believes that DNA is God's patent, signature and Magnum Opus Dei. I'm just sick of RNA getting the shit end of the stick.

Type DNA into your favourite search engine. Hundreds of millions of hits, spanning the whole range of human experiences.

Now do the same with RNA. Dry, dusty scientific Acrobat documents that read like they fell out of a mad scientist's briefcase on the train. Yet she's the one we should be paying a little overdue attention to.

DNA might have a bloody good memory, but most of what he knows is useless bollocks (including the code for making useless bollocks - all the way back to primitive life-forms). RNA is the cutter and paster, the editor who turns a bloated confused novel into a slim brilliant gem that you just can't put down; the one who prevents DNA from accidentally giving you and your descendants useless bollocks. Probably on your forehead.

Let's hear it for Renee. The day I hear her name on CSI (insert name of city here until about 2052) instead of her shitwit brother's, I'll jump for joy.

*Supposedly a cure for malaria before they discovered quinine. Didn't work. Imagine dying anyway, but with half a lime up your arse.

Do you want to give DNA a well-deserved kick in it's own bollocks? Well, we'll have to find those tiny plums first, somewhere deep inside that twisty bastard's innards. As a welcome side-effect we'll probably be able to find a cure for a lot of nasty shit that happens to us people too - sooner rather than later - and the best part is your computer will do all the work. All you have to do is sit back, grin and take the credit.

Help research PROTEIN FOLDING and maybe we can get shot of horrors such as Alzheimer's disease, Huntington's disease, cystic fibrosis, BSE, CJD, an inherited form of emphysema, and even many cancers - as well as learning enough about that little shit Denny to help those suffering from the DNA of nasty fucking bacteria and viruses to boot. Everybody fucking wins. Find out how you can help and see what progress has been made by clicking the link below. You owe it to Renee, yourself..and everyone you've ever loved, or ever will...


[Still trying not to be disheartened by being ranked in the thousand-and-odds on: Humor-blogs.com]

Friday, September 5, 2008

The death knell of blackberry picking

Apparently Enid Blyton does not rule all England any more. No more middle-class interfering kids ruining your smuggling operation. No more joyful picnics with nary a drop of white cider and no knife fights to mar the occasion. We have stopped using the dying days of summer to remind our kids that they've got to trudge back to school soon by dragging them out into the middle of fucking nowhere and picking blackberries.

Ah, the blackberry. Nature's Mars Bar. Eat about a hundred of these and you too will be dragging employees of McDonald's over the counter in a fructose-powered frenzy.  Pack about a hundred of them into your loinfruit's smaller frames and that's a recipe for projectile vomiting, cage-fighting across the back seat and fractured sentences full of expletives spat out at passing police cars by your likkle ones.

We don't take our kids out blackberry picking for another reason too. How on earth do we explain England's countryside full of corpses?

-Dad, I just tripped over a mound shaped like a man.

-It's okay son, that'll just be another unsuccessful small-time dealer who thought he could spend the money his supplier kept demanding with menaces.

-That's alright then...aaaaaaaaargh! What?

This was why dad and son fishing trips have fallen by the wayside too.

-Catch a fish there son?

-Nah, just another limb wrenched from the submerged corpse of a petty criminal who got too big for his boots...aaaaaargh!

-Calm down, son. Just chuck that soggy white-fleshed lump onto the pile over there. We'll tell everyone it's Hoki and pass it off as just as good as cod.


We must continue to take our children fishing AND blackberrying, even in the face of a green and pleasant land that has disturbing surprises just beneath the surface. How on earth else will we wind up with a Tupperware tub half full of a disturbing black liquid that's still in the crisper drawer of the fridge six weeks from now?


[Still taking it from foreign sailors on the orders of: Humor-blogs.com ]

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Oh my God, I'm sick of the OMG phenomenon (definitely NSFW)

This is going to sound like a petulant whine, and it probably is, so I'll make sure it puts on its nicest Pantagruelistic dress and does its hair especially for you - just so you know I'm at least 'passionate' about the subject.

I love my language (English, obviously) - it's the best tongue in the world by a long chalk, probably because we stole all the most delicious words from every culture we ground into the dust under our Imperial bootheels. I even delight in all the terms being coined by successive generations - every patois, argot, jargon and cant springing from the foreheads of our yoof culture and burgeoning immigrant workforce. I am not a linguistic purist, like so many of my peers - the English language is a beautiful, organic fluid entity that rightly shapeshifts around our expectations and limitations; a good thing too, or it would end up dead like Latin and Classical Greek. Or boring, like French.

I cannot, however, take any more of the inappropriate overuse of those three little words. No, not 'it wasn't me' or 'I'll pull out'. I'm talking about OH. MY. GOD. Usually from those denizens of our wayward colony. Usually spoken with punctuation stressed, just like above. They've infected us with it. They've even reduced it in the crucible of banality to a sad acronymic quintessence.

-OMG, look at her shoes!

-OMG, I love that!

-OMG, you're a douchebag. (I've never really understood why this is an insult, unless it is highlighting the fact that the bag section of douching equipment gets the least fun job of the whole process)

Imagine being God. All day long you hear the prayers, hopes and fears of your children below. At least you would if it wasn't for countless twats lazily shouting your name in capital letters, or vocalizing it in staccato AQI, every single second of the bloody day. I'd be shrugging off my benevolent creator outfit and donning my smiting garments like a fucking shot. There's a time and a place for the utterance of those three little words. Here, let me give you a couple of examples.

You come home to a darkened house. Flicking on the living room lights, you take in the dreadful tableau of a gang of piratical midgets with diphallic terata queuing up to take turns double-fucking the empty eyesockets of your murdered parents - as your male family members stand around the edges of the room posh-wanking wildly into sheaths made from half-empty jars of baby food mixed with broken glass. Meanwhile, and centre-stage, your paternal and maternal grandmothers make and use strings of anal beads from mum and dad's eyes and optic nerves while singing 'don't it make your blue eyes brown' to each other in a comic falsetto.


You awake from a routine operation to discover that the surgeons have not only replaced all of your limbs with live chimpanzee heads, but said medicos are also merrily eating liquid shit fondue from your exposed colon with used tampons on the end of decaying heron's leg fondue forks.

THAT'S what they should be saving all their Oh my God's for; but they've used them all up in forum threads, inane chatter and comment posts at the end of celebrity news pages - the simple fucks.

I need a lie down now.


[Naming and shaming my pimp: Humor-blogs.com]

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

The Conspirinterocitor #2 - Where's your balls, man?

Heads up conspiracy theorists! You! Yes, you! The guy watching repeats of the X-files through his spirals-for-eyes. I'm talking to you, pal! It's time for The Conspirinterocitor to be tuned to your wavelength.

Did you know...that cholesterol is necessary for the production of the magic ball-juice that makes you a man? That means (by a stretch of logic that can only be described as fantastical) that the good people who are trying to lower your cholesterol level are trying to unman you, unmake you, destroy you.

Gloria Hunniford is obviously trying to take over the world. Maybe not by herself; she may be just the face of demonic/government/alien powers, but I wouldn't put it past her. Allow me to explain.

Flimsy reasoning powers...GO!

1) Your liver makes cholesterol anyway, no matter what you eat; but if you eat foods high in cholesterol then your own body feels the need to produce less.

2) They want to replace your good old eggs and bacon cholesterol with PLANT sterols instead. So your testosterone will be replaced by plant-osterone (or something) and when's the last time you saw a plant win a war, a gold medal or even a fight over a girl?

3) Your girl isn't safe either 'cause cholesterol is basic to the production of oestrogen too.

So...Gloria Hunniford is the weathered face (or the head) of a conspiracy to make us breed less and fight like wimps.

What demonic/government/alien plot would be complete without turning us into meek, ball-less pussies who can't even remember (cholesterol helps memory too, see) what we are supposed to be fighting or breeding for? Oh, and because we are cheerfully doing it to ourselves (on the urging of so-called experts) then it MUST be a conspiracy.

Fight low cholesterol, you demented easily-led lunatics! Shove pies and quiche down your necks as if they're going out of fashion! Your planet (and your balls) need you!

[My cholesterol number is 42.6 - I practically shit eggs and shortcrust pastry in the form of fully intact flans. That wouldn't be so bad, but my body has somehow begun producing the fluted tins they come in as well - and they're havoc on the piles.]


n.b. I do not believe any of the above and, being fictional anyway, it wouldn't matter if I did. So don't go gunning old GH down in the street outside the T.V. studio, eh? Thanks awfully, old bean.

p.s. I used the word 'cholesterol' a full nine times in this post. Damn, that's ten now. I'd better stop while I can. No wonder they fucking shorten it to HDL and LDL. Though I do love the word 'lipid'.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

The Conspirinterocitor #1 - I bet this comes back to bite me on the arse

If this image of an interocitor is copyrighted by your film studio, please let me know and I'll take a fucking age to knock one up out of maths in POVray - but I'll resent you forever you bastards I love conspiracy theorists. Not conspiracies themselves, of course. What sane man could contemplate such wild and improbable Jenga towers of delusion as exist now, and have existed in one form or another since man stopped being too busy running for his life from fanged beasts; or breeding like fuck to up the population enough to fight same beasts instead. Well, at least enough to ensure that the murderous trip that you execute on Ug, your rival for Rachel Welch's affections, goes unnoticed in the mass panicked rush away from them. Come on, you'd do it. She's the only cavewoman around here with two names, for a start. That's prestige, that is. Fucking prestige.

They're fantastic they are. Poke 'em and off they go. Conspiracy theorists that is, not cavewomen.

A favourite activity of mine is the concoction of such wild and improbable Jenga towers of delusion as would have them frothing at the mouth. Here's the first...

The internet is a method of storing humanity's achievements, skills and knowledge for the inevitable migration of the social elite into space. (That's in bold so they notice it)

Flimsy reasoning powers...GO!

1)  We're not ALL going to be able to go now, are we?

2)  Those (the wealthy, the powerful, necessary whores, etc.) who do escape the coming bio/nano/religio-apocalypse will need the stored knowledge of mankind.

3)  That's what the internet is for - so the rest of us can enlighten future generations of spoilt people long after our starvey/grey gooey/smote-by-God deaths. Bastards.

So what can we do to fuck up their plans? Nothing we need to really. We've already done it. They'll wind up a few generations on being a mad society based on quasi-religious flame wars on message boards, or so ensorcelled by all the pervasive hard-core porn that they die out from such terrifyingly evolved STD's as would make the transformation into a zombie look like a fucking makeover. As their generation ships ply the spaceways, they'll be crying 'WTF?' at each other as they desperately try to Google the manual for the engines and come up with 380,000 hits for 'hot spicy engine sex'. Ha! Take that, escaping social elite!

That's it. Poked. See 'em go...


p.s. I do not believe any of the above. It is for the benefit of the credulous.

I do have the government after me though, but fortunately it is the government of Middle Kingdom Egypt - and they weren't much fucking use even when they were alive three and a half thousand years ago. So I reckon I can breathe easy. Oh Jesus! Is that an unmarked black dhow off the coast there - its oars muffled by rags and the slaves tongueless to best sneak silently up on me? They've found me.


Wiping off mascara 'til your face bleeds - the escape (part 4 of 4)

"That's it! That's your fucking plan! Wait until we're alone with them and hit them over the head with a hard hat?"

Hakim wasn't best pleased. He had failed however to think of anything better so that was the plan, in the end, that we went with. We didn't sleep. Partly in a deliberate act to look as unattractive as possible in the forlorn hope than even an Oompa-Loompa woman would be turned off by the sight of the huge bags under our eyes and sallow complexions. Partly because our nightmares were haunted by fleeting semi-nude orange figures.

The cell doors were flung open at 7 in the morning. Two of our attractive captors entered, all smiles. Hakim was unceremoniously ushered out and placed in the next cell. Then my 'companion' was pushed into the cell. She seemed as unwilling to perform as I, and stood in the corner, facing away from me. When the models retreated grinning from the room I tried to strike up a conversation - trying to lull my breeding partner into a false sense of security before braining her and donning her garb. Hakim had squirreled away some particularly orange foundation from a deep vein we had struck days earlier, and once we'd done the deed and stashed the unconscious (or dead) visitors under our sheets then we were going to try and bluff our way out as Oompa-Loompa women.

As I crossed the confined room, hard hat raised to deliver the blow, something struck me as odd about my companion. Unable to resist the urge to ask, the words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"Aren't you a little tall for an Oompa-Loompa?"

Before she could turn to answer me I heard Hakim's voice, shrill with fear and consternation, through the vents - asking his own burning question.

"Miss, do you know you have a monocle in your arsehole?"

I yelled at the top of my voice for Hakim to stop, knowing that my cries - whatever form they took (passion, fear, pain, "my God, it's full of stars") - would be ignored by the models. At the same time Withers threw off his green wig and joined me at the vent.  There was only silence from the next room. Withers and I stood looking at one another, too afraid for the safety of his dwarven hermaphrodite daughter to say anything more. Suddenly keys rattled in the door and we both turned to see who it was. There was no-one there when the door opened however.

"I'm down here." said a surprisingly deep female voice.

"No, further down." it said again.

"A little bit further down." one last time.

There in the lower third of the doorway stood Withers' offspring, Mathilda. Dragging Hakim's limp form. "I didn't hit him, dad, honest. He just fainted." she told Withers with a shrug. I didn't mind, and when Hakim woke up a few minutes later, he was just as happy as I was. The escape was now on.

He and I were soon at loggerheads over the route. I wanted to dig out through an eight metre layer of mascara near the surface, but he wanted to utilise a thicker layer of foundation at the same depth, arguing that it would be easier to dig through. It all boiled down to what time of day it would be when we broke ground. For now we plastered ourselves in orange foundation, dressed in overalls that Withers and Mathilda had brought, and ventured out into the mine again, locking the cells behind us.

We were ignored by all overseers. As we cautiously moved closer to the surface Withers explained how he had found me. He had, of course, been down here before - in the 80's. He'd spent thirteen weeks of his long life (I had no idea how old Withers was as he'd always been there) at the face before hiding in an outgoing lorry that had just delivered a consignment of shoulder pads. He and Mathilda had made up their differences in order to find me. He had purchased that lovely window in the village too. What a star.

We reached our penultimate goal - the two differing substrates that barred our way to freedom. I shook Hakim's hand and we parted, wishing each other luck. I looked into his tear-stained orange face one last time before we went our separate ways. Withers, Mathilda and I dug like mad orange rabbits, heaping the thick black goo behind us to hide our bright forms. Hours and hours of back-breaking effort ensued, tinged with the fear of discovery. I was just beginning to lose hope that we'd ever be free when my spade emerged into resistance-free open air.

It was a matter of only a few minutes work and we were standing, blackened to ebony, behind the bins in the loading area of a pharmacy in Nuneaton. It was night. Hakim would be totally visible. As Mathilda hotwired a nearby car I was sure I heard a yell of "Free Cornwall" and running footsteps, though. I hope he got away.

Back home at the manse and hosed off, we celebrated. There have been few sightings of the Supermodel Overlord Hierarchy and their minions since. Every now and then we hear the sound of high heels in the bushes at the edge of the grounds, but Withers just goes out with a plate of pie and mash and an electric fan. The waft of hearty wholesome fare always drives them away.

Mathilda now lives in the gatehouse and is an admirable, if overzealous, security guard. Our strange little family has settled back down to the daily life of just being us again.

[Phew! That's the tale of why I hadn't been posting for months over with, and it had nothing at all to do with Withers forgetting to pay the internet bill - leading to us being cut off for nearly a year]

Finally, a note about Loompa-Land. It is now being used by the U.S. Government for extraordinary rendition of terror suspects since Guantanamo Bay got all the bad press. The confessions extracted from prisoners there are done without the need for controversial techniques such as 'waterboarding', as they now just have to open a window and say -

-Hear that, buddy? That's a Vermicious Knid. Now tell us what we want to know or we'll let it in here to devour your terrorist ass.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Taking a breather before the conclusion - 'Teleportation tussles tyranny, terrorism, taxes. Triumphs'

If the boffins working on teleportation can get off their arses and send something that's a bit more substantial and entertaining than a ray of light, then we'll have the future sewn up. At least the atheists will. Since the original object is destroyed by the process of teleportation and an identical copy made at the other end, the religiously zealous would be shying right the fuck away from it. No more worrying about whether crazed terrorists will obliterate your flight to the Costa Del Mar, taking out you and that lovely couple from Preston who run a micro-brewery - Kayeda Al will be stuck at teleport check-in, in the grip of a thorny theosophical puzzle.

-What'd you mean, you can't guarantee whether my immortal soul will arrive at the other end with me? I've put a label on it and everything!

-Sorry, sir. We can't ensure the delivery of intangible items - even if they do make you more than the sum of your parts. Maybe you'd like to get a ferry instead. That's nice and safe, religiously speaking.

Terrorism would be become economically unviable almost overnight, as they struggle to save the money to fuel even the Fiat Cinquecentos that they'll have to drive overland to where you are safely holidaying. They'd also be unable to afford both petrol and semtex, so even when they finally turned up all they would be able to do is jump out of the car and shout bang. Only to find you went home a week ago. By stepping through a magnet-bedecked doorway. Ha! Take that fundamentalism!

Even the most well-funded ones, with plenty of petrol and bomb money would probably succumb to the perils and pitfalls of long-distance car journeys long before they arrived at their scheduled die-stination. Which you'd expect with four of them packed in there; the driver becoming steadily more annoyed with each passing mile - his volatile passengers getting on his tits while he tries one last time to find a decent radio station.

-Are we nearly there yet? Are we nearly there yet? Are we nearly there yet? This bomb belt itches. I need a wee.

-Right that's it! I'm turning this car around and we can all set ourselves off in the bloody house! No, I've put my foot down and that's final. You've just spoilt it for yourself and everyone else now. Oh don't start crying...

Another added benefit would be that fundamentalist neo-conservatives from the US wouldn't be teleporting either. Nope, they'd be packed onto ships that we could cheerfully turn away from our ports, or planes that we could redirect to elsewhere. Sorted. Hurry up you boffins, that's all I can say.

p.s. I will conclude the retelling of my escape from the supermodel overlord hierarchy soon. Then it's back to cracked little rants like this. Oh, frabjous day!

Friday, August 1, 2008

"You want me to do what?" - The realisation of impending doom (part 3 of 4)

Fruit flies fuck rotten oranges. Not strictly true of the real thing, Drosophila melanogaster, which will happily impregnate all kinds of decaying things; but unwholesomely apt for us.  'Fruit Fly' was our name, you see. We, the captives, chose it - unlike 'mole', 'donkey' and 'rabbit' which were the terminology of our gaolers. They called what Hakim and I had been singled out for 'Stock hybridisation programme C-One'.

We were not alone down here. There were other creatures, just as alien to this underground habitat as we men. They however had grown accustomed to life in the caverns, having come from an even less hospitable place.


Set your brains to 1971. If you weren't alive then, just imagine today but with the colour saturation turned up too high and seemingly no limit on the size of male shoe heels or the apertures in the bottoms of trousers. Also women had different shaped breasts then. I'm not kidding. Go on, look at a few adverts from around that time. They slope, don't they? Enough trans-generational mammary comparisons for now, back to the story.

It is 1971 and a tour bus winds its way through the parched countryside of Los Angeles. We faintly hear singing from within. Constant repetitious singing, without let-up or deviation from what had begun as a catchy whimsical tune but now echoed in the driver's ears like a mournful dirge. Suddenly the bus screeches to a halt on a forbidding crest with a rushing gasp from the air brakes. The doors open and a once lively voice, now etched with grim fatigue and despair, shouts "Everyone off to stretch your legs!"

In the half-light of pre-dawn we see sixty or seventy Oompa-Loompas traipse from the bus, puzzled at their remote location. This puzzlement quickly turned to dismay as Gene Wilder put the bus into gear and hared off into the California morning - finally free of those annoying singing cunts.

Some of them starved, some wandered off into the bayside night; never to be seen again. Others ended up in the cast of The Streets of San Francisco. The fortunate ones just became prostitutes. These were however dark days for the remainder of the employees of the chocolate factory, and most just huddled in the undergrowth living on berries, discarded tacos and good time memories of flower power.

That all ended one cloudless California night when the headlights of a 1971 Mercedes-Benz 280SE 3.5litre convertible washed over their shivering forms, and a perfectly manicured finger beckoned from the rolled down driver's window. Those huddled figures then gladly set to work below ground.

Of course, freed from their natural predator - absolutely fucking everything - those Oompa-Loompas thrived in this new chthonian habitat. Unfortunately they were piss-poor at mining, having enough sense of direction only to perform incredibly well choreographed  dance moves. Beyond that they blundered into walls, over sheer drops and under mine cart wheels regularly. That's when the supermodel overlord hierarchy [how often are you going to hear those three words together, eh?] instigated the stock hybridisation programmes.  A disturbing cross-breeding scheme between the female OL stock and the healthiest of their male captives.

Fruit flies fuck rotten oranges.

I understood the bitter humour behind the nomenclature now - and I was scared out of my wits. Apparently the successful progeny of these unholy unions were sent 'upstairs' - my first intimation that the major, and indeed all satellite mines, were situated below department stores and branches of Boots the Chemist all over the land. Hair bleach and radio-controlled shock collars were all it took to prevent spontaneous outbursts of singing and other Loompa-like behaviour from these secret orange ambassadors, and they were a great asset in selling off the mined resources. Sadly the male offspring of these experiments either died or were considered unfit to foist off on the public above. There were terrible rumours about shouty antique expert David Dickinson being the only successful male OL-human hybrid, but these were quickly quashed. I'm saying nothing about George Hamilton IV.

Hakim fearfully explained that the 'lucky' few chosen for this opportunity invariably went mad. He himself had spoken to an unlucky fruit fly before the poor man had taken his own life.

"He told me that not only did he have to do the deed mechanically, but because the models insisted on a fully enjoyable experience for their colour-challenged sisters all fruit flies had to be considerate in bed too. " Hakim told me in between uncontrollable shivers. "The poor bastard said it was like performing oral sex on the scene from 2001 where Dave Bowman is flying through the monolith."

That was it for me. I'd been shocked, beaten, suffered terrible pasty-related heartburn and the raging disappointment that I wasn't living in a recreation of The Two Ronnies 'Worm That Turned' serial. There was no way I was going down on a bloody Stanley Kubrick film.

That night we planned our escape. At whatever cost.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

"Where've I been? I'll tell you where I've been. I've been to Hell and back. No, I didn't bring you anything. What would you want a souvenir of Hell for?"- The confinement (part 2 of 4)

A blurred and hazy image of an arched tunnel ceiling, all striplights and bared cables. Low thrum of generators and hiss of powered ventilation. Scent of perfume, sweat and cheese pasties. Those were my only impressions after blacking out in the van. When I awake I groggily came to the conclusion that they were brief snatches of consciousness from my arrival here. Wherever here was.

Here turned out to a a roomy cell with stone walls, a bunk and a sturdy looking metal door. I was alone. There was just the one bunk so it looked like I wouldn't have to fight off the affections of a cellmate. Also real prisons don't have roughly hewn stone walls. Or the Dolce & Gabbana mining helmet and overalls that hung on a peg. There was no time to investigate further as a clank of keys heralded a visitor.

"You're either the worst transvestite I've ever seen, or you've been crawling through makeup for hours." I told the man who came through the door.

"I've been crawling through makeup for hours." he replied curtly, handing me the uniform hanging by the door and propelling me out of it. "Welcome to the cosmetics mines. You are now a mole. Get used to it. There's worse things to be down here."

Indeed, before me lay complicated and sprawling underground mine workings. I saw legions of tired looking men toiling carts over  rickety Temple of Doom style scaffolding. There were stunning female overseers patrolling here and there, tasers at easy reach on their exquisitely tooled Italian belts. Finally, incongruously, there was a branch of Greggs.

My guide was Hakim, a taxi driver from Bude who had been snatched two months earlier, in much the same manner as I had been. He explained to me that all makeup was in fact mined from the bowels of Mother Earth herself - the three largest and oldest workings being under London, New York and Paris. These mines were staffed and ran by models (who were also useful in recruitment as I had already found) under the executive control of super-models; who only ever passed on their orders by telephone, being much too busy to toddle off down here for every little thing.

"And the Greggs?" I asked. I had to. It was there, after all.

Turns out man only requires baked goods to live, at least for the short time we hapless prisoners were meant to. The ubiquitous  bakers had also been determined (by model-scientists, or scientist-models, which they preferred) to be the only thing other than cockroaches to be capable of surviving a nuclear blast, so a simple cave-in should be a doddle to shrug off. Then Hakim told me why I was here.

We were truly moles, he and I. Our task? To dig out raw cosmetics from the rich deposits buried in Gaia's belly-folds and to transfer them to the carts for the 'donkeys' to raise up to the packaging plants.  Hakim was right, there were worse things to be. Rabbits, for instance. The reason why it proudly boasts 'not tested on animals' on makeup now. The first time I saw the unfortunate victim of an apricot facial scrub eye bath I decided that I wanted to stay a mole. Before he blindly ran over the edge of the shaft entrance into nothingness - plummeting fourteen floors to a wet, red noisy death with the tops of his femurs sticking up through his shoulders, he had screamed "I could have told them it would bloody hurt, but it's the law. It's the friggin' laaaaaaaw. SPLAT!" There were also Fruit Flies, of whom no-one would speak. Ever. Even in hushed tones.

The months passed slowly, and with little incident. Our overseers were not unkind, though they were highly resistant to all attempts at socializing. When I was told by one of them that they had ways of making me work harder, I grinned broadly and nudged her suggestively. When I recovered from the massive taser-induced electric shock, I agreed with her wholeheartedly and got right back to work. Hakim and I got to know each other better, swapping tales of our home lives an indeterminate distance above us. We were completely institutionalised and gave no thought to escape. Until one fateful night.

We had been summoned to the catwalk, from where all important announcements were made. In the flickering flashes and sound effect whirr of imitation pressmen the newest Size Zero sat dining at her table. She was very recent, this one. They changed like Number Two in The Prisoner, and she was already eyeing her waistline for tell-tale signs of expansion (though she had only taken two bites of tissue and a sip of imported Japanese sea mist) lest she be replaced by a thinner newcomer.

Hakim and I represented our team and were there to hear our orders for the coming week. I hoped it wasn't another uniform change. A fortnight in culottes is enough for any man keen to retain a grasp on his sanity. Is it a skirt with legs or some kind of broken shorts? Man wasn't meant to ask these questions on looking down at himself. Size Zero cleared her throat, thereby shedding nearly a third of her body mass.

"Our surveyors have uncovered a rich vein of shimmer eyeshadow no.4 beneath the mascara seam that your men are working on. We wish you to divert half of your resources to mining this valuable commodity. Immediately. That is all."

"But Size Zero, " Hakim blustered futilely. "That is an incredibly dangerous section of the mine. We had five collapses last month; and even those men who survived them had to be moisturised and exfoliated for a week before they could return to work!"

Malice sparkled in her beautiful eyes. "I think it is time for a species change for you two, and your insolence had decided your fate. Enjoy your rest tonight, gentlemen, for tomorrow you become Fruit Flies!" Accompanied by her mocking laughter we were led out by armed guards and left in a different cell, away from the digging and pasties. Hakim paced the room nervously, much more ill at ease than I. I should have known that it was only blissful ignorance preventing me from panic and horror. You see, he finally explained to me (in tones significantly lower than hushed) what Fruit Flies were, and what they were for.

That's when I knew we had to escape, and before the morning brought us our new and terrifying existence.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

My trip into high adventure (and dudgeon) - The capture (part 1 of 4)

Allow me to tell you where I have been. Permit me to open your eyes to a world unknown to all but a select few. No, not the world of Max Mosley, where the word 'Nazi' can turn a perfectly respectable sick orgy into a reprehensible activity. Sorry Max, but even if you had been taking part in a bovine-themed sick orgy it is still the last two words which anyone outside the judiciary or the press are bothered about - not the costumes. Although you may have had better luck having moo-sex with whores, as they'd then be less likely to run to the press knowing that red-top headline writers and photo archivists would have a field day (pun partially intended) with them.

No, my unknown but welcome reader(s), this is a tale of a topsy-turvy world outside even the confines of jolly Gestapo uber-romps with loose-tongued prossies. A world hidden from all of us. A world I didn't even have the choice of stumbling across. It found me.

I rarely leave the manse, but on one fateful day last year I ventured out into the village below to see the sights and smell the odours of the world outside my ivory tower. I actually have an ivory tower, but do not think me cruel dear reader - my grandfather (non-ferret) discovered the true Elephant's Graveyard many years ago and brought home enough tusks to keep Harry Connick Jr. in piano keys for a thousand lifetimes. My grandmother fashioned the tower from what was left after Grandpa Magnetite sold off enough of his hoard to keep ten generations of us in the money. Yes, tainted money it was, but at least he was a step up from Prescott Bush.

I was happily window-shopping. I'd seen a beautiful one gracing the facade of the newsagent and had made a mental note to ask Withers to pay for and carry it back home as soon as I returned. Turning to cross the main shopping street I was stopped in my tracks by a white Transit van. It had screeched to a stop beside me, all peeling paintwork and rusted sills. Slightly shocked, I tapped on the passenger-side door to remonstrate with the occupants. A grimy window was haltingly rolled down and I got my first surprise of the day.

No 'white van man' this - the passenger leant out from the cab to reveal one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Taken aback, my complaint stuck in my throat. It didn't stand a chance of being voiced because just then another stunningly attractive face peered out at me. Then another. Driver and both passengers were absolutely gorgeous models.

That's when I lost my sight. I had succumbed to the phenomenon of 'lass-blindness'.

[A side note on lass-blindness, which you are unlikely to have explained - even by that most unlikely explainer - wikipedia.

Lass, or woman, blindness is akin to snow blindness. In much the same way as a small patch of snow in a green pasture will not blind you, one pretty woman alone is similarly harmless. It is the wall-to-wall, field-of-vision total expanses of both of these natural occurrences that does harm. This explains why men wake up next to some dreadful horrors after a night out clubbing. The male optic nerve becomes overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of beauties in sight and fails to register grots, hags and slap-tits at all after a while. Beer goggles do NOT protect the wearer, unlike snow goggles, and some researchers have posited that they may even make matters worse.]

The next I knew, I was being bundled roughly into the back of the white van. I fell atop other male forms as the doors were slammed shut and the engine started. Blind and terrified, I cried out to Withers to save me, but my cries were cut off with a rag, reeking of cleanser and nail varnish remover, stuffed into my mouth. I tried to fight back - but the fumes soon overwhelmed me, and I fell onto the pile of slumbering menfolk with the tinkling laughter of my captors ringing in my ears.

Where I woke up will be revealed in the next part of my tale of dread and wonder, coming to a pair of eyes near you soon.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

A filler piece on the origin of Man while I calm down from my ordeal

I believe I have a sound theory as to why men like wanking so much. As luck would have it, it shouldn’t offend any Moral Majority types, as it’s a biblical story too.

Skip to just before the creation of Man. God’s a bit weary of it all now; it’s Saturday. He’s had to come in today. For a full day. At the flat rate.

The angels are just sitting around, being essentially jobless until they and Hell’s minions have got something to fight over. Just lounging, watching God work - occasionally shouting “You’ve missed a bit!” or taking the piss out of His builder’s arse, giggling, and then blaming each other when God rounds angrily on them.

He had to do several thousand species of bird yesterday, put two extra hours in as well. Went out with the seraphim and St. Michael on Friday night to 'have a quick go on the world, before anyone else did'. Woke up feeling terrible, created vomiting - thought “Hey, everybody should try this!”, quickly realised that there was no everybody yet, and decided to make a creature upon which to bestow this gift. So, as a consequence, He rushed a lot of the animals on that Saturday morning - stuck a couple of thousand species below ground in the dark, so He wouldn’t have to bother colouring them in - and it saved Him ages not having to do any eyes for them.

Around lunchtime He creates weather. It immediately rains. Mud forms everywhere and He’s getting up to eyes in the stuff. “What can I do with all this then?” He booms. Remembering the vomiting creature He was going to knock together, He grabs a lump of mud; a pinch here, a squeeze there - Hey Presto! Man.
A subcontractor, finally! God brings all the animals to Adam, and gets the little mug to name them for him. One less dirty job.

Adam thinks he’s on Easy Street, sitting there on his backside in a clearing, naming away like nobodies business.

Winks. “Duck-billed Platypus”

God resists the urge to smack the little twat around a bit.

It must have got a little bit hairy for the lad when the fish were being named though. Adam’s treading water, being unable to doggy paddle because he hasn’t seen one yet. God reaches into the sea, pulls out a something and goes “What’s this then? It’s sleek, long and pointy-toothed. Extremely angry-looking.” And He drops it into the water next to Adam.

A lot of those sea creatures probably got named from the beach after that.

Points. “Octopus”
Points. “Whale”
Points, shaking visibly. “Starfish”

Anyway, Adam at this point is still an innocent, having not eaten of the apple that God shewed him earlier, while he was doing his induction. “Pears, Bananas, Oranges, Fruit of The Tree of Knowledge - don’t eat it. Photocopier - jams all the time. Coffee machine - if you kick it, it dispenses free Bovril.”

Adam just keeps on asking stupid question. Ignorant as he is, he also ignores or forgets everything he’s told. God waxes wrathful and pins him against a Guava tree by his throat, and hisses “Listen, son. I’ve been here since the dawn of time, and all you’ve done is a little bit of bloody naming on your first Saturday job!” God suddenly calms, His grip loosens and His voice no longer splits the skies. “And sorry about the - what was it called? Oh yeah, a shark. Sorry about the shark bite.” And He lets him go, smoothing down Adam’s non-existent clothing.

Feeling a little sorry for Adam - there’s a terrible lump on the lad’s throat now - God says, “Right, I’ll make for you a helpmeet. Keep you off my back.”

And Adam replies,sniggering, “What’s a helpmeet? No wonder you let me name the animals. Fucking helpmeet.”

God says “You’re making this far too easy you know.” And He smacks Adam’s head off the Guava tree.

Adam comes to, minus one rib. Smarts a bit. Still ignorant here remember, he starts asking questions while God’s busy on Eve.

“What are those bits on the front?”
“Why hasn’t she got one of these?”
“What’s she for again?”

God wants to do a proper job this time, having essentially bungled Man, so He ponders for a while on how to distract Adam while He puts twice as much brains in this one.

No need, however. Adam has been looking at Eve for far too long, and it has had its effect. Adam looks wide-eyed down at himself. “Why’s it doing that?”

Problem solved, thinks God. He’ll never know it’s supposed to be a sin, because I haven’t invented sin yet. As long as the little idiot stays away from the tree of you-know-what, we’re laughing.

“Go and find out for yourself. It’s about time you showed some initiative. It’s got something to do with your hand.”

And off goes Adam. Into that first honeyed and idyllic night that fell upon that first, most beautiful garden in all of the world. Masturbating furiously.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Free at least!

I have managed to finally extricate myself from an incarceration the likes of which would strike a white stripe down a grown man's hair. More to follow.