|:neutralising the pH level:|: November 2005

24.11.05

CHANCE MEETINGS II

If it doesn't make sense, chances are you haven't read the first one or it's just plain old crap. Scroll down to Chance Meetings and then come back to this one.

"I think I may know what's happening here," Yoiklop said, nodding his head knowingly and taking diminutive steps sideways towards the cluttered bookcase. "My recollection of events is sketchy at best but from what I can recall my presence in your room can be explained by my condition."

"What condition would that be?" Virginia enquired, genuinely relieved that the situation was progressing beyond the stalemate of cyclical dialogue.

"I have a sleeping disorder."

"Narcolepsy?"

"Kind of," Yoiklop replied, releasing two tentacles directly in line with his body behind his back and out of Virginia's view on a mission to scan and map the contents of the bookcase. "It's closer to a fusion of narcolepsy and sleep walking, where I'll fall asleep without warning and occasionally go wandering without being aware of where I'm going. I know it's happened to me before because I've woken up in places I have had no recollection of going to."

Virginia was intrigued by Yoiklop's latest explanation, having been reminded of how emotionally moved she felt by Donnie Darko and, to lesser extent, My Own Private Idaho, where main characters had sleeping disorders similar to what Yoiklop was describing.

Yoiklop's story was aided by the manner in which he told it: the whites of his eyes, which Virginia could partially make out in the moonlight, had narrowed the credibility gap from when he had begun; his tone, which reflected the confusing nature of his predicament, made everything he had said seem legitimate. In Virginia's eyes, Yoiklop had transformed from a potential homicidal maniac to a gentle soul with a troubling condition.

Slowly, Virginia lowered the wrought iron statue back to its rightful place and asked if Yoiklop had ever injured himself during his unplanned travels.

"No," he replied as his tentacles completed their mission and gave him knowledge required for his next move; a move so unforeseen and instantanous that if video cameras were mounted to every part of Virginia's room and aimed solely at Yoiklop, they would be found wanting with a plausible explanation of how he could do what he was about to do.

"I remember one time I was in a similar situation to this," Yoiklop said as his eyes darted behind his left shoulder.

Virginia was listening intently to every word but felt it was high time she saw the man behind the odd name that had told her a story of improbable and sympathetic dimensions. She reached for the light switch, turning her head as she did.

In less than the definitively shortest measure of time, and with the instinct of survival as his guiding light, Yoiklop did what only he was capable of.

[End of Part II]

AND ON THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT

Shorty from DDC:

The seas boiled with cider and the land crawled with evil things and everything was quite ghastly. God woke up, rubbed his eyes and had a closer look at what was going on.

"This will never do."

And so it came to pass that the day of judgement was pencilled in for Tuesday, and penned in after talking to Death, who was busy modelling for Heavy Metal album covers.

Tuesday rolled around and God decided that one person should stand as a representative for all of their kind, as he hadn't counted on there being quite so many people. "This is what happens when you put things off," he said.

First up was the company chairman. God told him that he was only allowed two tickets for the pearly gates and that should he be found wanting in judgement he would be turfed out upon his ear by St. Peter and his heavenly goons.

The company chairman thought, scratched his arse and said, "I will save myself and my company."

God said, "But what of thy workers and various staff?"

The chairman thought, "Surely someone else will look after them."

St. Peter came forward and said, "Get ye hence, and all like ye. Off to hell with no supper!" And so all the company chairpeople were sent to hell with no supper to enjoy the great works of Britney Spears and all like her.

Next up was the Father. "You can save but two of your family. Who do you choose?"

Father said, "I choose the mother and the father. The kids should be able to stand on their own two feet by now."

Father was judged and sent to dwell with the company chairpeople, and dine entirely on food from McDonalds and the very cheapest lager in the very cheapest booze-shop.

Up came Mother, who was shown the same two tickets into heaven. It reminded her of Millionaire. She said, "I choose myself and my children, for they are my purpose in living."

And God said, "But what of your husband, who half worked himself to death to feed and clothe your children. And give them expensive comodities like play-stations?"

"He smells and would make heaven smell of socks."

St. Peter came forward and said, "You had two tickets to heaven. You now have.... one ticket to spend eternity stuck in the lift with all the hosts of Millionaire." She was sent off to reside in an exclusive circle of Dis presided over by Chris Tarrant.

Next up was the Child. She had the choice explained in simple terms. Her brow furrowed. "I choose my Hamster and myself."

"But what of your Mother and Father?"

"The only person I love is my hamster and she would die without me." The girl hugged the hamster.

The Child was dispatched to the hell of grammar school for all of eternity.

Last up was the Hamster. He was to be held responsible for all the animals. His mind hadd not been idle while the various aspects of society had been dispatched to squirm on the griddle for all eternity.

"I choose some orphans and all the people that were good to me."

God turned to St. Peter and his goons. "Is that everyone?"

St. Peter looked at the list and nodded. God said, "Who's in there?"

"Just the hamsters."

"Right then, what's for tea?"

23.11.05

REVEALED: HOW TO ACHIEVE FOUR ORGASMS IN TWO DAYS

It's a simple matter of pressing the button until it goes click.

22.11.05

CHANCE MEETINGS

Virginia was mortified to see the figure of a man in her bedroom.

She had turned off the light less than forty minutes ago and was settling into a slumber that would recharge her body's energy to face another grueling day at work after the earth had turned sufficiently to again witness the sun's overwhelming spectacle of light and heat and such and such.

During the time of her body's gradual shut-down, when her brain's function was transforming its primary role from a multitude of tasks during consciousness to peaceful regression into automatically guided serenity, she was initially startled by the sudden manifestation of the man. But then she wasn't.

Fighting natural instincts to defend herself; within a parsec of time she had assessed the situation didn't require hand-to-hand combat, Virginia did not scream upon seeing the man, nor did she reach instinctively for the wrought iron statue on her bedside table; a worthy adversary in a moment of potential confrontation and the same item she had instinctively turned to when her neighbour's cat had unknowingly made the last of its nine fatal moves.

"Who are you?" Angela said calmly as she sat upright in bed.

Her eyes were getting accustomed to the tones and contours of the room. She tingled in an area not too far from her hips. The figure before her seemed somehow unusual, like a man whose body was in uneven proportions. The sixteen tentacles wriggling high above the outline of his body were another distinct sign that something odd was afoot.

"What?" the man said as if surprised by Virginia's spoken words.

The sixteen tentacles instinctively retracted into the man's body, or so it appeared to Virginia's sleep deprived peepers.

The man did not move, though his silhouette from the moonlit sky cast a foreboding figure in front of the solitary window. The curtains had not been drawn as the man's broad shouldered figure loomed ominously before the dancing willows outside, yet Virginia was at ease.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"My name is Yoiklop," the man began. "I don't know why I'm here. Where is here?"

"You're in my bedroom. How did you get here and why are you here, Yoiklop?"

Yoiklop took a moment before speaking again. He familiarised himself with the surroundings; his head pivoted to all parts of the dark room as if scoping every millimetre of the foreign landscape; to him the various trinkets, gadgets and knick-knacks Virginia had accumulated within her lifetime were as foreign as he had ever seen. It gave him a thrill of unlimited sexual expectation, the likes of which his reproductive system had never encountered.

"If you've come to steal something, you're wasting your time," Virginia said during the seconds of awkward silence in which Yoiklop was reaching an unannounced climax. "I don't have anything of value. And if you think you're going to rape me then I'll let you in on a little secret you may care to know before your next move: I have a scorching case of herpes and I'm a black belt in karate. I'd be delighted to hospitalise you should you so desire. So, what's it gonna be, Yoiklop?"

If Virginia could see Yoiklop's face, she would have noted its change of expression from that of ejaculatory success to fundamental confusion.

"Oh, no, you don't understand," Yoiklop said as blandly as his vocal cords would allow upon computing Virginia's convincing portfolio. "I'm not here to steal from you or to rape you."

"Then why are you here?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Yoiklop said, his voice returning to normal. "And that's Bemezulah's truth."

Virginia's patience was now at the end of its short tether. She despised talking in circles, let alone talking in circles to a stranger who had mysteriously appeared before her in her bedroom as she was under the willful spell of sleep and who then proceeded to display his sixteen tentacles and occasionally utter words in an unrecognisable tongue.

"Look," Virginia said tersely, sickened by the thought that Yoiklop was a religious twat from another planet who was sent on a mission to recruit unwilling believers. She detested the thought of riding on a UFO with disease ridden humans incapable of stringing together multi syllabic words and sentences not beginning with 'what'.

Reaching for the wrought iron statue on her bedside table, she said, "If you don't start explaining why you're here right now, they'll be prying pieces of your arm bones from your brain in order to identify you. Stop stalling and start singing, Yoiklop!"

With two deft movements, Virginia sprang to her feet and held the wrought iron statue above her left shoulder, gripping it firmly with both hands. Her cat-like movement and attacking stance gave the indication that her story about being a black belt in karate rang true, though her diminutive figure and pink cotton jimjams displaced the balance of credibility.

Yoiklop sensed the situation could get ugly quick-smart should he not be forthcoming with a valid scenario of his presence and should Virginia yell the horrid 'hai-ya' squeal that had so startled him when accidentally flicking the channel to The Muppet Show one time.

He contemplated how to best alter his explanation of why he was in Virginia's room, though his initial explanation was still as legitimate as the birthmark on the longest of his tentacles.

"I really don't want to cause you alarm, Ma'am," he said, sounding remarkably convincing, like the gun-slinging sheriff he had also accidentally encountered on TV, "but the nature of my presence here is not easily explained."

"I'm listening," Virginia said, holding her ground and maintaining the offensive pose that had commanded a most impressive presence.

Yoiklop cleared his throat and began...

[End of Part I]

21.11.05

OMDC TOUR DIARY - DAY FIVE OR SO - THE CCV

DDC is suffering from near death by alcohol poisoning:

Mum turned up at the station in typical dogchop style, two hours before work finished and demanding to be picked-up and bought booze. It is endearing when I do it, but I hate it when other people do it. Anyway, I dived out of the door and piled into the Guzzler. It was the first time I have finished early on a Friday in about two years, so I suppose she has her uses...

I found them clawing at a beer dispensing machine, a machine which passed beyond their wildest imaginings. These are typically found on street corners with cans ranging from 330ml up to 1.5l. That's right, they have one and a half liter cans!!! Anyway, this concept could not find its way into their entrenched dogchop psyches. If you can imagine a one pound fifty coin, that is the kind of concept they were wrestling with. A basic unit of their lives had been thrown to the four winds. When I pointed out that all one had to do to buy beer was put coins in the slot, she passed out and her bloke slung her over his shoulder. Seeing right to the heart of the matter, as I did when I first saw them, he asked if the school kids could use them. I said they could and frequently did. Then I pointed out the fag machine and he said it was a god job that OMDC was asleep and unable to see that the fags are one pound fifty a pack.

Being as we had had such a dose of culture-shock straight off the train, it was decided the best possbile course of action was to buy some beer, so we went to my local mecca, a place withthe monicker "Liquor Mountain". There was a bit of a frenzy and before I knew what was going on she had spent about eighty quid on booze. I had just enough sense to ask for a point card before the tasting started. We fired off back to the flat with the suspension creaking like a tea-clipper in a gale.

The DogChop Residence, or Chez Chien Decoupez when we are feeling saucy, is not big. Like a mini is not big. Like a mini-skirt is not long. Like a mini-roundabout is not safe. There are basically four rooms in the place, while OMDC has at least five and a half rooms of personality all to herself. As we entered the white glove went on, metaphorically, and was drawn along the top of the metaphorical sideboard. A complaint was tendered. A door was pointed out, road beyond.

I said, "my house, my rules", with my biggest smirk. "Do you remember that?" I toyed around with this for a while telling them that there was to be no hanky-panky under this roof. I had been saving it up for a while so it was pretty good fun. Further festivities were blocked by the arrival of Mrs. DogChop home from work. There was the usual exchange of pleasantries done in a girlfriend-and-mother-meeting-for-the-first-time tone of a voice, until they told me to stop.

Actually, they got on like a house on fire, having so much in common (beer, fags, spider solitaire) and things got off to a good start. The only downside so far has been the vicious habit of vegetarianism being practiced be her boyfriend. The guy has the most plausible reason I've heard yet, which was, "I used to live downwind from an abatoire." Vegetarianism just does not exist in this country, so it can be a bit of a hassle.

Me: He can't eat meat. Do you have anything without meat?
Shop owner: How about this chicken curry?
Me: No. Chicken is meat.
Them: What about fish?
Me: No, that is meat too. Nothing that moves around by itself.
Them: Ok, what about a shell-fish?
Me: No.
Them: How about a shrimp doria with the shrimps taken off?
Me: No. No kind of animal / fish / bird / molusc product or derivative.
Them: How about a salad?
Me: Sounds good.
Them: Bacon is ok, right?

We carried on in this vane for about a quarter of an hour until they finally worked out what the issue was. I would love to say the gratin turned up with anchovies on it, but alas, it didn't. I then had a go at the waitress for ruining a perfectly good story. I asked her for some kind of twist, so she my nipple a half-turn to the left, so that was allright.

So I am back at work today and they have headed into the big city close by, which for the sake of our "secret location" wasn't Kyoto but some other South East Asian city. I actually had to write down on a piece of paper what was and wasn't acceptable for the boyfriend to eat, so he is now a card-carrying veggie.

18.11.05

AUTUMNAL LARK

17.11.05

STREAM OF SEMI-CONCIOUSNESS

DDC has been extracting his car out of the shit:

And damnably unpleasant it was too. No wait, hang on, I've been extracting the shit out of my car. and it was unpleasantly damnable.

It all started last night, with Mrs. DDC fretting about having to endure my old Mum for a week. They have never met, so there is some justified grounds for worry, if only she knew it. Anyway, the young Mrs. DDC, or should we say the common-law DDC, was idly wondering if Old Mrs. DDC would be able to bear the stench, given that she first found somewhere to sit amongst the garbage and detritus of the ages. I asked her if she was suggesting that my car was anything other than in the state which it arrived. She said yes so I sentenced her to an hour on the rug and half an ounce of semen in her hair.

Anyway, though i couldn't admit it to her, it got me thinking so I went out to inspect the old guzzler. "A pox on this goddamn tinitus!" I screamed as I opened the boot. Finding nothing there I moved round to the front. Interestingly, my tinitus got louder as I did so. I popped the bonnet with a healthy clunk mingled with a comedy boingy/twangy noise. I don't know why, I just like making sound effects when I do stuff.

"Christ on a bike", I yelled! "How the shittin' crikey did that get there?" After months my car-linked tinitus was explained. I'd been ready to put the farm on Asian Dub Foundation and the 400 watt sub in the boot. I would have lost the farm. There, nestled beween the leaky turbo, the exhaust manifold and the engine block was a human child with a harmonica.

"What do you think you are doing? What do think this is? Who do you think you are?" My brain often resets to these kinds of questions when challenged with things beyond the ordinary.

"Take it easy", he said, "Who were you expecting?"

"I was expecting a dead cat covered in flies, maggots and oil from the leaky turbo."

"Why?"

"Because that's where I left it. Where is it?"

"Dunno guv."

"WHERE IS IT?"

"I threw it through the window of a school."

"I see."

EXTREME RISK

DDC is upping the warning to severe and alerting the riot squad:

Old Mrs. DC is MIA somewhere in SE Asia. MIA means missing in anger. She apparently landed in the country sometime yesterday and promptly dropped off the radar. This is a worry, because it probably means that she is raging round like rugby player with Deep Heat on his glans. She mood-swings like a coffee-fed one-eyed batsman in failing light. I'd love to say she is more of a danger to herself than others, then snigger, but I won't.

I've been scanning the papers to find out if she has cut loose but all they can tell me is that Junior clitoris is in the region, laughing and grinning to himself about his own private joke (his continued existence). Some Chinese people have caught bird flu, which is like bird pain - completely incomprehensible to a bloke. Also, on the subcontinent, England contrived to loose the first test in baffling fashion. No news of a middle-aged pom crucifying the poor Asian crowd for liking something other than normal northern British culture (Hah!).

Meanwhile our vague agreement to meet "at a station" has progressed no further. No dout she knew, as I did, that she would loose her rag over her the hotel room not being clean, or the bar not selling bitter or something. I make no exageration when I say that she paddled her brothers arse with a cricket bat for "shoutin' his lungs out" from the bedroom window. At the age of seven.

Presumably it will all work out. She has a habit (probably a nasty one) of coming out on top. Until she docks within my sphere of influence I can't stop her, so I am hiding under the covers covering my eyes and humming "I don't know you are there" over and over again.

16.11.05

THREE REASONS WHY I AM SO BUSY

DDCs turn to do a bit of a nothing post. tw oreasons to worry:

Old Mrs. DC is due in the country iminently. Two DogChops on the same continent is high risk. Two in the same country ought not to be allowed Here is a sample which was comitted by phone:

Mum: I'll see you in a week.
DDC: OK.
Mum: You know my boyfriend is veggy don't you?
DDC: Oh, for fucks sake! Well, we'll work something out...
Mum: I don't know how they get away with eating [censored food]. And if that's not bad enough, everyone over here is eating it too. and liking it.
DDC: ...
Mum: It shouldn't be allowed.
DDC: Weellll, when you get here you can tell them all about it.
Mum: Right. I will.

I think they can like whatever they like and good luck to them. I happen to agree with Mrs. DC on the actual food itself but I don't feel the urge to go round making the world eat steak and kidney pie. On the positive side of matters she is bringing some real food with her.

Mrs. DDC has just got a new job. This is also a mixed blessing as the dinner / washing / cooking fairy will be coming round a bit less and I'll have to work harder at ignoring all the mess. Here is another verbatim sample of what came to pass last night. Present are MDC, off stage left, and DDC in bath.

MDC: Do you want to see my new uniform?
DDC: OK.
MDC: It looks bad.
DDC: At least I won't need to worry about your virtue while you are on your way home from work.

The, um, item itself is a kind of ironed cargo pant affair with big pockets on each leg. The jacket, which is also pants, is a bit of what I might refer to as a "Kim-jong-iller". It is a kind of polyester creation the like of which man was not meant to ken of.

DDC: Well, you can keep your sandwiches in your trouser pocket... What is it you are doing again?
MDC: Cad.
DDC: I say, that's a bit strong! Anyway, how did you find out?
MDC: I'm designing airbags with CAD.
DDC: In an office?
MDC: Yes.
DDC: Then why do you have to dress like a third world storm trooper?

Once I realised what she was doing, I stopped worrying about the clothes and spared a thought for the thousands of people who might suffer if she clicks the wrong icon.

14.11.05

TERRITORIAL PISSINGS

"90% of the time I have no fucking clue what they are talking about but I read on, because it's totally different than 99% of what else there is to read out there. And I really like it. It's just all mixed up and fucked up and somewhat anarchic with a mild overprint of organization as forced by a blogger template. They seem like a couple of decent bastards (said in the good humoured Irish sense, out of my Irish side). They seem to be in the U.S. or Canada somewhere as expats from the UK (?) and Oz...just enough info to put them in or out of context. Anyway, good off the wall stuff for after a few whiskies on a week night." - TXYankee

I think everyone ought to have an Irish side. I know if I could get my parents to fuck again and give birth to me again I'd prefer it to be while I wasn't watching the scenario unfold like a porno scene with a trumpet carrying the music score - and while within Irish borders.

Since that sounds too lame to be mildly interesting, I'd prefer the preference went further by them being in a seven-seater plane above Ireland with House Of Pain, Bono and Daniel Day-Lewis aboard. I'd prefer my rebirth to feature Daniel Day-Lewis acting as the character he portrayed in My Left Foot and the House of Pain lads acting as themselves while thinking that they were cast members of Gangs Of New York; one of them recording the experience with a top-shelf cam job that they wouldn't notice seemed somehow 'out of place.'

I'd prefer that the House of Pain lads manhandled Bono in an aggressive though non-sexual way - although I endorse spontaneity - and opened the door with him struggling in the manner of a sow that's about to receive a stake through the cornea. I'd prefer that Daniel Day-Lewis pushed his wheelchair towards the King of Plop and booted the fucker with every ounce of strength he could muster out of the plane. I'd prefer for the House of Pain lads to use their trusted crossbows with cyanide-tipped arrows and aim at Bono's fast disappearing body and then grab Daniel Day-Lewis, his wheelchair and a massive parachute in pursuit of Bono's earth-bound body, which they'd kick and run over until his bones turned to dust and vanished with the breeze once they safely caught up with him.

[It wouldn't be half bad if the chicks from The Coors (are they Irish and does it really matter anyway?) undressed slowly in an aside dream sequence inside Daniel Day-Lewis's head during the pursuit sequence.]

Meanwhile, my mum gives birth to the most sinister looking nine pound turd whose use of expletives is both poetic and disturbing for a one-minute old poo.

I'm fine with the notion of Bono becoming a martyr as a result as it would mean that I wouldn't have to deal with his incessant phone calls demanding his soul back, and I'd live my life without having to justify my own odour.

In short: thanks, TXYankee, and sink a fine whiskey or whisky for us.

Note: This post was posted in lieu of anything mildly reasonable on offer in its place and is in no way representative of the usual standard the contributors of this site pride themselves on.

10.11.05

THERE IS A MESSAGE IN THIS SOMEWHERE...

DDC has absolutely nothing to say about god, God, homosexuality, single mothers, manboobs or ninjas. This is for the other remaining reader:

Dave finally spoke. "Who are you?" He was talking to the conspicuous man stood behind his desk. His conspicuity varied from low in his pile of paper, through medium in his torch, to high in his aparell.

The man leered at him.

Dave asked, "Why are you behind me and why are you naked?"

The man smirked and asked, "aren't you going to ask about the torch and the pile of paper?"

"After the day I've had," said Dave, "I'll settle for the biggies now and the minor details later. Who are you?"

The man flashed his torch on and off a few times and grinned at Dave. Dave swung around on his chair and faced his computer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw The Poster. The Poster got capitals because it symbolised the attitude of the place where he worked. It said, "lets make less garbage", on it. When it had arrived the cleaning staff had thoughtfully removed half of the bins. Presumably, they were working along the principle that less bins equalled less garbage. Dave wondered if the man behind him had had something to do with the exercise.

He was interupted by the wholy unwelcome feeling of what seemed to be a top-bollock being stroked against the back of his skull. Without turning around he asked, "that wasn't a man-mammary, was it?"

The naked man behind him cackled and said, "No, but I am glad you asked. I lost mine in nam in a horrific shell-suit / fart-lighting accident. It was like being shrink-wrapped in hot psychadelic plastic."

Dave couldn't help but say, "They didn't have shell-suits during nam!"

The naked man said, "They did in the '80s when I went. Anyway, they had to ampitate my bloke-chebs to save my life. If you can call it that."

Dave finally turned round. "You dirty fucker! You lied!" He pointed a finger at the offending nork. "What is that?"

The old man sighed and said, "It's an udder. I nicked it off a cow I hit on my scooter. Anyway, don't you want to know why I am here?"

Dave was livid at himself for getting drawn into the conversaion. "Why the fuck wouldn't you tell me before?"

"I wouldn't be who I was if I told you straight a away. You see this?" He flashed the torch on and off a couple of times. "I'm the light at the end of the tunnel!"

Dave started looking round for cameras and grinning colleagues. There were none. "I'm not sure I understand."

"See, it's a metaphor, init? You have a bit of a hard time of it, it's like a long dark tunnel. Right now you're busy, right?"

Dave nodded. "Speaking of which..." he said.

"Big workload, hoards of cunts around you that don't understand, a boss that doesn't understand...."

Dave said, "yes, yes! I understand the long tunnel bit. You wasting my time is helping me with that one."

"And the light at the end of the tunnel is supposed to be the end right! Do you see? The way out of the tunnel!?"

Dave drew a hand down his face, over his eyes. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Thatta boy!"

Dave spoke slowly. "So the light at the end of the tunnel is, a, a shrivelled old man with a torch and a prosthetic udder? A shrivelled, naked old man with a prosthetic udder and a torch?"

"Don't you just love the irony? And I haven't even turned round yet! Just wait til you see the rectal polyps!"

Dave pondered over each word. "And the pile of paper. Let me think. That would be more work, right?"

"Symbolically, that would work, but I couldn't manage it at such short notice. Your boss says he's going to bring it round later. The best I could do was a Geofrey Archer novel that I downloaded off Kazaa. I did it on your computer so it will be hopelessly riddled with viruses and spyware by now."

Dave said, "I see." Then he thought for a while. "Are you a service, like a strip-o-gram?"

"Nah. This is just a hobby. I wandered in off the street. The security guard wanted to stop me. Evidently, not enough to physically touch me, though. He said he was calling the police."

"So," said Dave, "you thought of this by yourself?"

"Yep. I'm doing lady luck tomorow."

"Will she be smiling?"

The old man bared his gums.

9.11.05

HORSE & HORSE

BT3 stays true to his word to the lads at LENNON & McCARTNEY by writing:

Horse and Horse walked into the Lonesome Cowgirl Saloon with a swagger in their step.

"These suspenders are a frightful discomfort," Horse said as he made minor adjustments to the clasp which held the suspenders to the red fishnet stockings on his long and freshly shaven legs. They glistened in areas where the sensual fabric wasn't masking their perfect form, attracting the attention of all manner of species as they did.

Horse didn't enjoy seeing his mate in unnecessary discomfort so he offered to lend a hand.

"Can I be of assistance?" he enquired with gusto, eyeing an opportunity of copping a feel of his trusted friend's pins of perfection.

"No, Sweetness, I'm fine," Horse replied sounding ruffled but not agitated enough to disperse expletives with machine gun precision into the crowded room.

"Oh, these fucking suspenders!" Horse erupted a second later, accidentally marking his territory in ungainly fashion while waving the white flag before one of life's mysteries: the suspenders clasp.

The crowd - consisting of blacksmiths, loaners, rustlers, hustlers, cowboys, farmers, prostitutes, the destitute, drunkards, philanderers, halfwits, rednecks, junkies, cows and seamen on day leave - simultaneously ceased all manner of movement. The automated piano that had fathered seven different tunes during its three year tenure ground to a screeching halt; birds that had been travelling south-west for the winter plummeted from the sky, demanding shots of water and ecstacy as they did; donkeys keeled over as if struck by an anonymous parasitical force the likes of a microscopic locust plague; a fleet of Martian aircraft landed and took off without so much as a raised middle finger; soup atop the saloon's stove boiled and overflowed as endless supplies of super-conducted broth spilled onto the floor, casting six dozen millipedes and fourteen tarantulas into the next life; gravity momentarily reversed itself, throwing everyone onto the spider web encrusted ceiling and back onto the filthy floor where they belonged; cannibalistic leeches reluctantly sank their teeth into horseradishes and regurgitated the contents into jaws of unsuspecting ants that had marched their way, and a whole bunch of other shit unaffecting the outcome of the present situation happened.

It was a fucking great big mess as silence, boasting a defiant grin, ran the show.

"Zatsh a mighdee impweshive peyah o man boobsh," the toothless banjo player mouthed matter-of-factly when he could no longer stand the silence.

"Right he be," added a man in a beige suit as the revolvers in his holsters slowly hoisted themselves laterally.

"What would you know about man boobs?" enquired Horse in defense of his buddy Horse.

"Well, I hads me man boobs once," the man in a beige suit replied as the progress of his erection maintained its steady but firm path.

"Oh, really?" Horse said lacking a more impressive line of spontaneous questioning. He raised his left foot onto a chair and attended to his faulty clasp. Parts of both of his testicles dangled underneath his purple underwear until he coughed and adjusted the heaving parts.

"Yeah, really," the man in the beige suit confirmed while spitting chewing tobacco into the spittoon at the base of the bar and partially onto the boot of a Protestant sheep fucker. "Back in '72, when I was knee high to a whatchamacallit, I hads me the biggest man boobs y'all damn did see. Reckon it was from all the milk and buffalo rump I ate as horses wasn't as common back thens. Gave me the biggest man boobs y'all damn ever did see."

"Oh, really?" Horse said on behalf of his buddy Horse by way of question, eyeing with a steel cold stare at the gawkers, whose eyes were darting between his buddy's voluptuous man boobs, his recently arranged ball sack and his flawless legs.

"Yep," the man in the beige suit confirmed while throwing a shot of tequila to the back of his throat. "Ah-huah!" he exclaimed tenaciously, adding, "that hits thems spots. I reckon I hads me more trouble than I ever dids back thens because of my superior sized man boobs," he continued.

"What kind of trouble?" Horse's buddy Horse enquired on behalf of his buddy Horse.

"Well," the man in the beige suit pondered while tugging at his billygoat beard, "mostly with men wanting to squeeze 'ems and slap 'ems arounds in their hairy palms," he continued gesturing in the manner of juggling a hot potato with his hands, which were spread at shoulder width. "And thens there was the troubles whens they wouldn't quit suckling," the man in the beige suit continued. "Then there was the troubles in the kitchen whenever they was exposed to flames. No matter whats I did, my superior man boobs always caughts on fire. Looki here," he said ripping open his shirt and exposing his hideously scarred chest and his pride and joy; the superfluous third nipple.

"Is that a superfluous third nipple?" Horse enquired on behalf of everyone in the room.

"Wesh, it shoor ish," the toothless banjo player replied. "I shuckt and shuckt hore goodwess nose how wong, but nahfin ewah did kaym owt," he continued.

"It's as trues as the murderous sons of leeches on your head," the man in the beige suit continued.

"You had three man boobs?" Horse questioned in disbelief.

"Yep, it's true," the man in the beige suit said while nodding his pumpkin sized head disappointedly and tucking his hairy enclave back into his torn shirt. "But I had to get riddem."
"Why?" asked Horse, unnerved at displaying his distinct lack of understanding.

"Because when you have thirteen mens vying to suckle your man boobs for thirteen consecutives days, you don't much feels like living no mores. Everywhere I wents, people squealed and trieds to push their ways onto a nipple, but the thirteen mens wouldn't allows anyone new to suckle. They kepts suckling and interchanging and suckling and interchanging and my man boobs kepts getting longers and longers."

"What did you do, dear man?" Horse asked on behalf of his buddy Horse with concern in his tone that would insense a gorilla to snap a baby's head with its jaws.

"I shot 'em," the man in the beige suit said while spitting chewing tobacco into the spittoon at the base of the bar and partially onto the boot of a Lutheran pig banger who had taken up residence in the chair formerly occupied by the Protestant sheep fucker.

"Why?" enquired Horse.

"I don'ts know!" the man in the beige suit yelled as tears welled in his eyes. "I really don'ts know!" he continued, the tears now flowing as prominently as internal organs from a lamb with Japanese bloodlines and suicidal tendencies. "I miss my superior man boobs so much. Oh, Gods, why did I have to go ands shoot my precious superior man boobs? Why, Gods? Why?"

That evening, and every other evening marking that same evening, the Lonesome Cowgirl Saloon would serve barbecued buffalo rump with milk and observe a minute's silence in remembrance of the man in the beige suit's fallen comrades.

[If anyone has ideas about the next installment in the Horse & Horse man-boobs series, I welcome all suggestions care of the comments.]

IS THIS THE END? a.k.a. AM I IMPOTENT?

My brain doesn't allow the rest of me access to my dreams. It's strictly a love affair between my brain and itself and no matter what I do to convince it otherwise or think in attempt to trick it, my brain simply won't allow any other involvement. It's been going on since I can't remember and even though I know I do dream, I can never place my fingers or toes at the scene of what transpired while I was in a vegetative coma-like state; a state I hope is filled with good times, like the show of the same name.

Last night, I had a doozie of a dream that was as vivid as anything from thirty seconds ago, though it lacked the regular thwack-kazoink of a more common occurrence. I refer to the rush of blood to my hot beef injection. On a conscious level I'm pretty fucking glad about the whole lack-of-erection connection with this dream as my sister at age nine featured prominently. However, it has caused me to re-evaluate the dream several times over for I'm certain that I dream every night as I wake up every morning with a case of full-blown erectionitis. For the record, I don't have a sexual attraction to my sister. Debate that all you want if you so choose.

The Crux:
There was a party going down at (insert a name here)'s place. We were shooting pool on one of those full-sized tables that requires a telephone call and an etch-a-sketch graphic delivered by taxi in preparation for the next shot. Reefers and sparkling white wine were being passed around per norm though the effects were flaccid; foreshadowing my first tentative steps for the morning that lay ahead.

As (insert a name here) played and missed everything on the table our attention turned to commotion outside. It was past middle of the night and well into early in the morning as pretty much only uni students and thirty-somethings that had abstained from finding a suitable mate could be heard arguing amongst themselves about all things trivial. Nobody bothered throwing bricks over the roof in protest of the verbal diarrhea disturbing our chi as the floodlit tennis court in the backyard would have given the game away. (Insert name here) suggested tranquilizer darts at thirty yards with camo gear on to roars of approval but empty boxes on the barbie marked with 'Extra Effective' soon cast a downer on the proposal.

(Insert name here) handed me the night vision goggles to further my pursuit of a more precarious lifestyle. (Insert name here) handed me the fattest of the spliffs, which I took to like gangrene takes to blood tissue to further my pursuit of knowing as much about the afterlife before I get there.

Everything around me suggested surreal dimensions as I ignored the Shaun of the Dead type scenario unfolding outside. Focus was diverted to the sky where Mars, other planets and constellations I had more knowledge of in Primary school than now had gathered.

Everything was so close it was within reach had I had the energy to pick up a pool cue and poke stuff or swish it around with the chalked end, which I didn't. I slumped down on my ass and looked upward through the night vision goggles coz it worked wonders for me on multiple levels and was as easy as sitting down. I'm guessing I drooled though I can't be certain: it's one of those odds-on assumptions I've come to accept as true.

Pretty shortly after that (insert a name here) potted a shot from the next post code. My attention was redirected from the lightshow going on above my head to the shiny black ball that lay dead in the cellar of the pocket. I may have said something like "Feekwahn amayzbeen" in absence of judicious speech but I doubt it as I was too impressed being perplexed by shit I had momentarily forgotten about.

I witnessed a dung beetle make love to a praying mantis; a bird headbutt then devour a lamp post; a dog's stomach implode from the consumption of too many worms and a mosquito the size of an earthmover hover next to my right ear no matter how many slow motion swipes I made.

Meanwhile, a light show of indescribable significance had formed in the split second it took me to swat the mosquito with a rhinoceros. Meteorites and comets showered countless helpless species with rocks, dust, ice and bong water. (Insert a name here) ducked for cover under the pooltable. So too did (insert a name here). I was laughing my ass off as debris from all angles showered me to the point of near suffocation. Half a dozen blows flush to the face only made the situation more comical as I witnessed each chunk of rock arrive in real time through the night vision goggles; helplessly drowning in dry stasis as the goggles remained glued to my face.

Then I heard music blaring from a window at the side of the house. Figuring it to be mainstream as it wasn't anything I recognised, I sprang to my feet as quickly as a thoroughly stoned man with night vision goggles was capable. The investigation would be gradual and serious as the octogenarian tortoise explained. I motioned to my friends with one of those wanky two-fingered salutes that everything would be spiffy once the source of the infuriating music was found. Their cowardice prevented a response.

I opened the side door to the house. When I entered, I saw my sister; young and pudgy from being overfed by my mum. She was sitting in her nightgown with a set of big-assed headphones - the quality, expensive as gold spaghetti kind - on her head.

"You have to plug that end into the stereo," I yelled pointing to the exposed end at the base of the three-metre cord. She couldn't hear me over the blaring music though she mouthed something in my direction. She seemed happy in her night attire and additional kilos. I felt happy for her too. She seemed equally unaware of what was going down outside so I didn't want to bother her; waved and left all the while wondering what she fancied about that song.

The second I stepped back outside it's all over. I'm not dead. Nobody is dead. Yet everything is over.

The Hollywood ending that I had dreaded was upon me as bells rang to signify the arrival of six o'clock.

Unlike every other morning, I remember the dream and unlike every other morning I don't have a hard-on. I'm amazed and pissed off. I'm frantic and calm. I'm thrilled at the clarity of what happened only moments ago and I'm devastated that it's nothing more than just another regular day on this regular planet where a large part of the regularity has been downsized considerably and remnants of what was an amazing experience of internal circuits remain. I should be more ecstatic that I finally remembered a dream but I can't be because it's so forgettable. When I awoke I wasn't bleeding from the face. And I wasn't erect, damn it. No answers have been forthcoming. I haven't learned anything I didn't already know and if nothing else there's another question to leave me pondering: Why didn't my erection join me today?

8.11.05

I DON'T CARE IF YOU WERE A GOOD PERSON

Another shorty fom DDC:

St. Peter sat and thought for a while. He still hadn't gotten his pun quite right when three people arrived. They looked around in the usual way, as if they had had GBJ do a number on their ass. St. Peter did in fact have all the time in the world, so he waited.

The three people were an atheist, an agnostic and a born-again Christian. The Christian spoke first. "I told you so," he said. After a bit of a smug smile he looked round at the towering angel before him. "I've heard that you get get five words to tell your life."

St Peter said, "Sorry mate, that's Mondays. Tuesday is limerick day."

"Can I have a minute?"

St. Peter said, "Time has no meaning here, but yes, you can have a bit of time to think about it. I'll deal with these two first." He gave the other two a dark look. "You, the wishy-washy liberal. I expect you like jazz don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "If you went around saying the Landlord of a pub didn't exist, do you think you'd be welcome for karaoke at the Dog ans Duck on a Thursday?" Again, he didn't wait for an answer. "Well, you can fuck off for all of eternity. I doubt anywhere else will have you, either."

The atheist sagged a bit, said, "I wonder if the druids will have me," and dissapeared.

The heavenly bouncer turned to the agnostic and said, "It's up for you too, I'm afraid. What kind of message would it send out if we started letting you lot in? Quite fankly, this sea-lawyer talk puzzles me. He might exist, but..." St. Peter sighed a long sigh. "If he did exist he is almost certainly not going to go for the wait and see approach, so I don't see the point. Off you go then."

The agnostic looked a bit put out and said, "But I lived a good life! My actions coincided exactly with most of the ten commandments and the other minor teachings of the bible."

St. Peter said, "That's a bitch, eh? Better to go to hell for a multitude of sins than a trifling gamble over the existence of your creator. Anyway, the rules are the rules and I can't change them."

The agnostic dissapeared and the born-again Christian piped-up. "I'm ready!"

He drew in his breath and began,
"There once was a young man from Devon,
Who wanted to get into heaven
He mended his ways,
God he did praise,
and remembered that god was seven."

He looked at St. Peter, who said, "I'm with you right up to the last line. What was that about?"

The born-again Christian said, "It is a line from a pixies song. I couldn't think of any rhymes for 'heaven'. Can I get in?"

St. Peter thought about it and asked, "Why were you re-born?"

The born-again Christian thought for a while and said, "It was around the time that my dog died, and..."

"Enough", cried the angel. "You were just hedging your bets with that other poor sinner." He looked down at his clipboard. "I'll put you on the waiting list. If we have any cancellations I'll let you know."

7.11.05

HEAVENLY BOUNCERS

DDC HAS JUST TEN MINUTES TO SPARE:

St. Peter sat before the pearly gates humming to himself. He was musing on the gates themselves, their name and how to work it into a pun about a popular sexual manouvre at the next AA meeting. He was cut off, as he often was, by a drawn-out shriek.

"I'm not ready......"

A mortal soul appeared with a poof on the downy, cloudlike avenue leading to where St. Peter sat. He looked round and wandered in a lackadaisical manner up to the gates, looked them up and down. He looked St. Peter up and down, the sign behind him left to right. It said, "To enter this heavenly paradise, you must tell your life story in five words." St. Peter sat there looking bored.

"Excuse me, there has been a terrible mistake..."

St. Peter took his time, exactly like he had all the time in the world, saying, "Too many words, I'm afraid."

"No, I mean I shouldn't be here."

St. Peter took his time again. "There is another place in the basement, if you'd prefer that." A pause. "Other than that there are a few other places. Valhalla is very nice if you like that kind of thing. Going back to that other place isn't on the cards, though."

"I see. Give me a minute will you?" He scratched his arse and thought about it for a while. "It's not very good, but I'll have a go. Here goes: "I came, I saw, I...."."

St. Peter conjured a clipboard. He ran his finger down a line and said, "No, I'm sorry. That one has already gone. Might I suggest you try Nirvana next? They limit you to one word but almost anything will do. They're not as picky as us."

The poor soul wandered away from the gates of heaven.

St. Peter looked up again. "You can fuck off too!" He glared at the poof. "We don't want your sort round 'ere, corruptin' the school kids and souring the milk."

The poof duly fucked off as directed.

4.11.05

THE BOOK LAUNCH

My face felt confined as I sensed the first bead of sweat trickle from my brow onto the bridge of my nose. I was well fucked off by the time it transcended to my upper lip as it left me no option but to react; something I despised as it displayed weakness at the most fundamental level. I could handle sweating like a prized lamb on a rotisserie if I was in the batter's box awaiting the next pitch or diving at full length to field a line-driven ground ball to make the miraculous out at first base, but this wasn't the cup of tea I usually chose when it came to physical exertion. Book launches were for tweed jackets and fine print, not rubber masks, loud red suits and enormous cod pieces.

The disguise was necessary, police commissioner Gordon assured me, for the good of mankind and to lesser extent for the good of the kids; my kids, whom the Facists, the Christians, the bankers, the Communists, the krauts, the chiropractors, the minimalists, the Shiites, the anti-Semites, the capitalists, the pro-lifers, the U2 fans and the anonymous masses of every town would target first as a token gesture; forewarning that my own life was not as sacred as I gambled it to be.

"You're far from Oz, Dorothy," commissioner Gordon said in his hackneyed way in reference to my question of where the dunnies were.

I should've known the fucker was on the take from the way he sucked his extended middle finger past the second knuckle. How else would he know about the potential disturbance to my children's lives? Who was his source and how much could they be bought for? These questions would all have to wait as I was distracted by a flaming erection; mine.

Despite such assassination of comfort I could see clearly through both eye slots and sensed that my sudden and vigorous shaking of the head displaced sweat to the lower reaches of the mask, as intended, where it fused with the purple turtle neck sweater my wife had chosen for me in autumn recently passed. An undesired pool of liquid that comprised 30% salt, 20% water and 50% tequila was forming below my neck line.

Must remember to wring it out and reverse my lavish state of assumed sobriety when the pain of these surroundings becomes too overwhelming to endure.

Farts didn't help matters along but I'm shit at controlling anxiety of this type as I rarely fall victim to its groping effects. It's a feeling as alien to me as guilt and the fucking fat Catholics that jump over the false doormat pit to peddle it to my doorstep.

So, the unannounced jerking motion of my head startled a few elderly housewives who had grappled with the shitty November rain to stand in line for a brief peek at yours truly. I'd better remember to show some skin during the signing. Secretly, I'm applauding their effort to be here just as much as I am secretly sickened by their crabby appearance and smell. Couldn't they do something about those rain drenched clothes, like shove them down the shitter or donate them to the Goodwill bin? And couldn't they wear longer skirts? Women of that age really have no manners at all.

Humanity has me by the shoulders and is shaking me senseless.

Maybe Leon was right about the vaginal wallpaper and cod piece being too over the top and maybe I wouldn't have argued with him as much had I not skulled the entire El Toro. What's done is done. Ole!

Now that I recall, the old fart didn't look half bad with a mop and bucket in his hands and fishnet stockings as far as the eye could see. What was that all about, anyway?

Maybe Beyonce will finally show to one of my official private gatherings instead of keeping the rabbit ears relationship cindering with saucy mpgs and personalised subliminal messages in her video clips at regular intervals in the lunar calendar. I've seen stranger things: like the time that diva showed the world her testicles in a jar. I'd have to think on my feet and have legitimate sounding excuses at the ready in case any of this makes it to air. The wife would no doubt see every incriminating second and be into my spine with sharpened teeth aplenty should those fuckwads from TV actually show.

Speak of the devil's spawn.

I'm glad the erection has subsided; no telling what could have happened.

Oh, for fuck's sake, there's that cunting Lavinia from F! Entertainment. Check out those falsies. What a botch job. Her plastic surgeon must have a plan that no longer includes her.

"Yo, Lavinia, you flagrant skank! Has Walter been dropping bowling balls from the third floor onto only one of your fun bags again?"

No reply. How fucking typical. Maybe she didn't recognise the voice through the mask. It did sound kind of muffled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Bricktop351 will now accept any questions you may have about his latest offering. Please be sure to raise your hand and await confirmation by way of name recognition before asking a question. Yes, Lavinia."
"Lavinia Love from F! Entertainment. Do you think that anyone will want to read about bowel movements?"
"Rrrrar!"
"I'll take that as a 'no' unless you have anything to add."

Of course I do, you corporate fuck rag, hence the book. What a dumb fuck; the devoid of sense reporting to the devoid of sense and punctuating the experience with emphasis in the wrong places.

" 'No' it is then."
"Yes, Edward."
"Greetings, Leon. Greetings, Bricktop351. Edward Earnmore III, the New York Post Haste. Would it be incredulous of me to conclude by having read one tenth of the preface that your apolitical disposition to the world's present status can be summed up in a word: excrement?"
"Rrrrar!"
"Perhaps Mr Bricktop351 would answer your question if you rephrased it, Edward."
"Very well. Do you hate everyone?"
"Rrrrar!"

How fucking hard was it to say that? Four simple words that any knuckle scraper could understand instead of that pompous educated crap you initially sprayed. I hope the cameras caught that moon. I'm sure there's a few grams of shit still stuck to my hairy ass. Mental note: sock this fucker in the teeth with a rake a few times the next time he's snooping in the yard; give the tooth fairy good reason to fatten his purse. Education doesn't agree with some people and I don't give a fuck what anyone says. The cameras and reporters are here for me, not you, you schmuck. And the answer to your questions is no, as I'm in favour of having people over at various times, especially when the quota of buds per square inch reaches critical level. Let the show continue, Leon.

"Yes, Clarissa."
"Clarissa Stokes, Independent Thrush Daily. Is there any truth to the rumour that you're a woman?"
"Rrrrar!"
"I see. What about the rumour that you and Dr. DogChop are the same person?"
"Rrrrar!"
"Right. What about the rumour that this book was largely funded by terrorist money."

Yeah. There's no doubt in my mind whose finger is on the pulse.

"Rrrrar!"
"Is there anything you'd care to say that we could actually fuse into a story as what you've said thus far is largely useless."
"Rrrrar!"
"I see I'm wasting my time."
"Rrrar!"
"Perhaps Mr Bricktop351 would appreciate questions about the book: how it came about, why the main character is a compulsive juggler-slash-manic depressive beetle collector, how graphic the chapter A Symphony of Diarrhea was; things of that nature. Yes, Jeremy."
"Jeremy Kendall, Associated Leather and Spandex Union of Europe. May I enquire why you chose a Randy 'The Macho Man' Savage' mask for your latest book launch?"

"Finally, a sane question with relevance minus the usual theatrics and political correctness of dodging an issue that I've come to expect from the motherfuckers around you, Jeremy. And, by the way, offense was intended to include you, Ray, you fucking twat, so quit staring at the refreshments table without asking a question all night. Jeremy, I can best address your question by answering it. They were fresh out of Paris Hilton masks."

EXCERPTS FROM AN ACQUIRED DIARY 4

Connor is such a fucking dick. Today he slapped me on the ass and said, "Jen, you rock my world," as if he were some kind of B-grade movie star that hasn't had a decent part for longer than Mickey Rourke and I was some kind of homoerotic sexual monkey that would dance on the spot and slap my miniature cymbals together the second he vomited that line. I mean, seriously, what a fucking cockhead. I wonder if all guys think that by being irritating sexist pigs they're somwhow going to tap into the secret nether world of women that hasn't witnessed the light of day for thousands of years because if they are then these deluded sods aren't limited to my work environment.

Per normal, I was at Dermott's Cafe today for a quick bite and a read when a fairly good-looking ethnic guy with one of those chiseled faces you read about in romance novels, who was also in desperate need of a shave, walked by and winked at me. I fail to see the connection between winking and making a favourable impression on someone as there isn't a lick of attraction to a member of the opposite sex behaving like a stereotype. At least not for me. I can imagine his opening line to be something equally ridiculous: 'Hi there, hot stuff. I'm a looker, I'm ethnic, I'm into your sassy sense of fashion and I'm suitably available for the next hour. Wanna get serious?' Pulease! What was I supposed to do, flutter my eyeslashes like a virginal fifteen-year-old and giggle uncontrollably, rendering myself powerless to his casual way? I mean, for fuck's sake! What is it with blokes and their utter stupidity at doing anything remotely realistic to get a woman's attention? Does that kind of crap actually work and if it does, who does it work on?

Which magazines are these delusional apes reading that tell them this behaviour is acceptable AND likely to get them into our pants? If that guy was hung like a donkey, kneeling down on one knee with an engagement ring in his hand as his impressively sized pecker was laid out like a delicate wedding dress on red carpet with the words 'For You, Sweetheart' hand-written on it in red lipstick, I wouldn't be impressed.

Well, I would, but I'd want earplugs. And a gag for him.

2.11.05

THE BEST WAY TO BLOW 250 QUID IN ONE GO

DDC is one step closer to where he sees himself in a year and a half:

OK guys, I've had my epiphany. It has lead to two posts in a day, which I think is a record for this site. From now on it is just the lead up. Fuck the test. Fuck Christmas. Look what I found on one of those auction sites!

Can anyone give me a better way of spending 250 quid? "Mum, look! It's a snowboarding tiger!"

Curse my credit rating! If only I had a card, it would be mine now. Mine, I tell you, MINE!

AS I TOOK DOGGY TO THE RIVER TO SLAY, STUDYIN' ABOUT THAT GOOD OLD WAY AND WHO SHOULD WEAR THE RUBBER GOWN, GOOD LORD SHOW ME THE WAY

DDC hapened to be wondering past the castle yesterday:

Bert: It just doesn't look right. We've co-ordinated three different shades of orange with the sky-blue, but it doesn't seem to be enough. Who would buy it like it is?
Edgar: I know what you mean. Daahling, it is just too functional. Nobody wants mere function from these things anymore. They need a whole lifestyle microcosm.
Bert: My God, you're right!
Edgar: Mwaahh! I know! We need more complexity. Let's stick a bunch of lace round the top!

Edgar: I failed you. It didn't work - I swoon. The truth hurts me too. I can't even motivate myself to squawk.
Bert: Rome was not built in a day. Let's tinker with the colours a bit more. How about some gold?
Edgar: Daahling, it sounds like a winner.

Bert: This time all my kisses are crosses. Damn, I thought we had it that time.
Edgar: Mwaaak! It looks better than it did before. God, but we need more sparkle.
Bert: You're right. Let it never be said that your sense of what is appropriate failed us in our time of need.
Edgar: Bertyboy, I have it! A twelve volt battery and a string of fairy lights could augment the impact. For preference, we should write something with them in big whirly letters that you can barely read!
Bert: How about "bunnies"?
Edgar: A peck on the cheek for you, my boy!
Bert: I've worried about you since you came back from Thailand.

Bert: It's good but it isn't great... It needs something else.
Edgar: You're a little diamond, but I think you hope for too much.
Bert: That's it! We could jewel-encrust it! They'll have to go on that straps because there is no space left anywhere else.
Edgar: I concede. But there must be a bow. We can make tinsel bows and put them over possible failure points to hide them.
Bert: I think we've cracked it! All that's left is to send it down to the sweat shop in Myanmar to be mass-produced by twelve-year-olds.
Edgar: Who wouldn't want to buy this?
Bert: Well, men, obviously. Well, most men.

DDC had heard enough. He was damn near disturbed enough to go to a musical. Like all shocked amateur surgeons, he turned to poetry:

Fled DDC over the wall to cry
Now he knew the how and why
of Mrs. DCs fashion scar,
Caused by gaudy, dangerous bra
His tears were caused not by thought
of magpies' design badly taught,
But instead by hideous spectre
of birds two, they who'd deck'd her
Spoiling item itself not bad
with items glittery, all they had
With fripperies they had builded
Classical lilly, guilded
For who would take item swell,
In itself shapely, belle
pure of form, best in white
and cover it with such shite?

1.11.05

KEEF'S STORY

A man stood and took ten steps forwards. Another man, in a white lab coat, was already standing. He also took ten steps forwards. The man thumped the microphone several times with his stubbly thumb.

"Keef is true champion fucking," the man said, as members of the substantial crowd gasped and threw expressions of repulsion, disgust and disbelief on their already swollen faces.

Realising shortly thereafter the error in his way as repeated jolts of electricity permeated his temple from the man in a white lab coat's expertly wielded stun gun; the man sank to his knees screaming for mercy.

As his convulsions subsided he somehow found strength to pick himself up off the ground, clear his throat and adjust his Bolo tie. The throng of onlookers made it plain to see that ignoring the smell of searing flesh would be easier said than done. They covered their noses anticipating the stench would get worse before it got better. It did.

"My sorry!" the man exclaimed into the microphone after a brief sabbatical from anything resembling recognisable speech - even by his standards. His brow was down turned and bleeding; his forehead was a virtual minefield of potholes; his nostrils were flared exposing their impressively hairy internal walls. He delicately dabbed with a used handkerchief fished from his trouser pocket sweat and smoke atop his bald cranium.

"Great Keef is a man," he continued as the handkerchief was returned to its cotton sheath. "We when is kids, we will go play the creek to. One time slipped my and fell on ass I. Keef will what do? Cry? Away run? No! Keef does pick up my and my and Keef does laugh and laugh and laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha does my and Keef laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha. And ha-ha-ha-ha does my and Keef laugh."

The man in the white lab coat briskly raised his stun gun-bearing hand which raised suspicion in the man cowering behind the microphone that he was prepared to repeat his previous course of action.

"Keef and my playing footy do twenty-three years," the man said feigning for cover and watching closely the armed hand of the man in the white lab coat. "Twenty-three years be long, long time," he continued, having discerned that the stage was momentarily safe. "Keef and my premierships eleven win do and every time drink and drink and drink do. Me drink like a much. Much! Keef hero my is and my remembering Keef forever. Thank youse."

The man took ten steps back from where he came and seated himself on the plastic chair from which he had risen. The man in the white lab coat followed closely behind, gave the man a cookie and patted the man several times on the back of his left shoulder. The man in the white lab coat stood beside the man.

A man missing his right ear got up and took fifteen steps forwards. He cleared his throat as though he was on official business. He spat.

"Thanks for that, Darryl," the man said in his effeminate voice. He cleared his throat once more and pivoted his head. He spat. "I also knew Keith for flamin' ages," he said, "but that didn't stop me from likin' the bloke. He was a fair dinkum mongrel when it came to livin' his life and tellin' me what was wrong with mine, but I'll grant him this: he didn't have a skeleton in his closet. No, sir; not a single one. Keith was as straight-shootin' as straight shooters get, which is why I liked the bloke. He was a ridgy didge right up front sorta bloke who always spoke his mind whether others wanted to hear it or not. I never had ta read between the lines with Keith and I never had ta tell him to stay away from my woman. Not the once. Keith had a kind of mutual respect for other blokes' women that's difficult to explain. Ain't that right, blokes?" the man said by raising his voice and scanning deep into the crowd. The crowd murmured.

"Keith was a man of men," the man continued. He liked his women like he liked his footy - tough and no holes barred - which is why he and Shazza made such a great couple. Shazza, love," the man said looking into the direction of Mrs Keith Jervis, "you'll never walk alone, love. You'll never walk alone."

The man tipped his bush hat and cleared his throat. He spat. He took fifteen steps back to his plastic chair from which he had risen and he shook the hand of another man before he sat down.

A man in a black robe rose to his feet and took three steps to his left.

"Is there anyone else who would care to say a few words before we continue?" he said calmly into the microphone.

A solitary sheep stood on its hind legs. It took thirty-two delicate steps forwards and tapped the microphone with a leg.

"Keith didn't believe in condoms," the sheep said with one leg directing the crowd's gaze to the paddock where a flock of forty or so sheep that bore an uncanny resemblence to the recently departed were grazing, "and he preferred it in my rear."

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