Salt water crocodile tears

I have salty tears. And there are saltwater crocodiles. So the Crocodiles could go in my tears and then we could say something about Crocodile tears.

I don't want to say it though but you can if you want? Come on Sandra see it from my perspective, I've always encouraged you, some might say NURTURED you. There was that ONE time when you ended up touting your wares on the streets of Wokingham but that was so brief as to be not worth mentioning.

No Sandra I'm not here for a slagging match. A Slanging match? A singing slag? Look Sandra these things aren't important. We were talking about the crocodiles remember?

Cally Forn-eye A

Went down the Coast into Santa Monica yesterday. I rarely go that way these days, partly because my job means I'm mainly working in Northern California and partly because this is all fictional and I've never been to the U.S.A.

What strikes me the most, on one of my trips to Santa Monica, is the number of Alloooominum shops that help you avoid flunking math this semesta.

I'll leave you with a quote from Ghandi "Don't flick a cocktail stick at my prick"

The things we do for glove

My boss asked me to draft the following letter to BBC North and Yorkshire television:

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is with regret that I find myself having to write to you both again. You will recall that we had cause to complain back in March over your misleading reporting of one of our Initiatives. Once again we are extremely dismayed at the tone and manner in which you have reported such an initiative which threatens to undermine our efforts to promote healthy lives in our region.

You report with overt scepticism that the initiative to implant live Lobsters into women with fertility problems is unlikely to receive public backing. On the contrary, thousand of people in the UK have some form of fertility problem. Conventional IVF is both costly in monetary and psychological terms. By offering couples the chance to conceive a hard shelled expensive crustacean, we are giving hope to those poor buggers where hope was gone. Where their feeble bodies and minds were bereft of smiles due to the lack of working innards, we offer a viable alternative.

Of course, the Lobsters are not always carried to full term and even in the event that they are, the birth normally results in the death of both the Lobster, the mother and the father. But the choice is stark for these people, particularly in the grim North. They either vainly carry on with the fevered but ultimately fruitless coupling on the kitchen table, or they reach out to health professionals and say

“Yes. Yes I DO have a problem and I want a baby Lobster”.

I pity the poor sod who tries to deny these ‘people’ this opportunity.

Yours truly,

Colin Badger-Silk

Fudge

I cupped Charlottes face in my hands and blew gently across her face.

“Don’t do that Christian” she shook her head from my grip irritably.

The reaction shocked me and I took a step back.

“Careful!” she exclaimed, “you’ll step on my shopping”.

I stumbled to a halt but was powerless to stop myself standing on the bag. A sickening crunch confirmed the deed.

“You moron, you absolute moron” she snarled.

“It was an accident” I countered, stung by the rebuke “I didn’t mean to do it”.

“Yeah you don’t MEAN to do a lot of things. Christ, is that your excuse for all your blunders in life?”.

“Charlotte please” I held up my hands feeling genuinely hurt and perplexed, “What’s the matter?”.

She walked silently and slowly toward me before firing an open handed slap to my face. I recoiled in horror until my back was against the wall.

“No more questions” she muttered, eyes wide, “Sit down Chris. We need to talk”. She hung her head looking utterly defeated.

I followed her into the living-room, a lump in my throat and a heavy heart. This did not have the hallmarks of a happy ending. Once she had sat down, she looked up at me with purpose.

“I didn’t want to have to ask this but I have no choice”, she took a deep breath, “Have you been spooning fudge into my dressing-table?”.

The realisation hit me like a taser. I’d been found out.

“Fudge?” I tried to ride out the storm.

“Every drawer, shelf and cupboard is coated in Fudge” she shook her head in disbelief, “I mean, you must have been doing it for weeks. Making up a massive bowl of fudge then spooning it into the dressing-table whilst I slept”.

“ALRIGHT!” I erupted, “It’s true…it’s ALL true. I can’t stop myself, I wish I could but I can’t.”.

“Oh Chris” she shook her head half in pity and have in disgust, “You’ve fallen for the lure of the fudge again”.

As I nodded numbly, the tears flowed easily down my face.

Pies, pies, pies!

My local shop sells something they call "Miscellaneous fruit pie". They are roughly the size of a toddlers head and tend to contain pulped berries and hair in roughly equal measure.

Sunday tea time is a paradox of fear and excitement as we the whole family sit down in front of the TV, put on a gratuitous snuff movie on the DVD player, and slice into the pie with a bone handled knife.

Washed down with pints of tea, there really is nothing more loathsome or gut wrenchingly delightful as seeing purple juice and clumps of hair emerging from peoples mouths.

Try one today!

Floaty light

I suppose I've always believed, at least in principle, that people are fundementally predisposed to attach bicycle pumps to one or more orifices, thereby attempting to float among the clouds.

I've mulled it over and I dare say you have too. But whilst I feel sure that I could attain enough air within to float across distant seas, the sad fact is that normal air would not enable us to float skyward. We would need to utilise Helium, Hydrogen or some other floaty gas.

So the next time you mournfully finger that pump, consider the futility of your actions.

What's cooler than cool?

At 34 years of age I'd thought my really cool funky days had gone. Today, someone reaffirmed my faith in myself by saying I was really cool.

I'd built a papier mache model of myself as usual and placed it in a noose above my desk. As is often the case, by peeking from the stationary cupboard, I witnessed colleagues rush to free the accurate replica and commence resuscitation. When the chest caved in to reveal the newspaper interior they realised they had been duped again and I burst out of the cupboard feet first. Slamming forcefully into the chest of the nearest colleague, I screeched "Marbles" and thrashed at my clothes, eventually removing them.

Naked I began to strut back and forth with a vile smirk attached to my face like leeches on a child's leg. "Who wants to expedite some actions on my ass?" I'd ask each person in turn. That was when a member of security beamed down from the ship and began to beat me with his cyber-wand.

I was gratified and bleeding to hear, with each successive thrash, him state clearly "you….are…really…cool".