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".

Blow me down with a leather

I tell you one thing that I find morally dubious. It's taking a fish out of a lake and removing one of its scales then releasing it. Then a week later catching it again, removing another one of its scales then releasing it. And doing that until it has no scales left at all.

Then the next time you catch it you scream "baldy little fish" and "want a wig you bald fishy git?" before punching its abdomen and flinging it into a tree to expire in the breeze.

And they say it's on the increase.

The Nile

I was skimming stones across the electric light blue earlier this afternoon and caught my nodules on a stray cat.

The damn thing hissed with anger as I ruptured all my goodness onto the floor. Vainly I scrabbled at the seed trying to gather it back in. However, it was a fruitless endeavour rather akin to blowing your nose into chopsticks not tissue.

So I hosed myself down and dripped my way back to the Elephant enclosure with a trembling bottom lip and arched eyebrows.

Winning

What a deal! What a signed deal! I burst into the bar still smarting with pleasure at the cavalcade of back slaps that had echoed onto the flesh betwixt my shoulders.

I had netted the company a cool £4m on the back of some risky and indeed morally dubious endeavours.

"What can I get you to drink you old rascal?" one prominent director asked, ruffling my velvety hair with a single leather-clad hand.

"I'll have a pint of blood please" I smiled back, absent-mindedly raising the tip of my nose to temporarily resemble a sated pig.

"Good man" he said looking a little rueful, "I can't say I've ever been one for Cocktails myself, I think a pint of Bitter is about as frivolous as I'm likely to get at my age" he continued to a flurry of nervous laughs from the colleagues who had by now gravitated toward the lure of the deal-winner and big boss.

"Nor me" I admitted, "Its not a cocktail". More nervous laughter. "Nope. What I want is a cold glass of genuine blood, preferably from a human".

All around me mouths gaped.

"Oh for goodness sake people" I flailed my hands with exasperation, "I'll get the damn drink myself" and I hurried to the bar with a suspicious shuffling gait.

"Excuse me my darling" I bellowed down the bar at the already busy girl, "when you have a minute….".

She visibly sighed, completed her order and approached slower than a Snail on Prozac.

"What blood do you sell?"

"Assorted animal, human or frothy" she answered, fingers knuckle deep within her elongated ear.

"Frothy hmmm?" I marvelled, "sounds like a right copious amount of fun" I shrivelled, "what's frothy about it?"

"Weeeelllll" she drawled with a level of disinterest capable of entry into the Guinness book of world records, "Its virgin's blood but with bubbles blown into it with a straw".

"Authenticated?" I asked with raised eyebrows, all too aware of fakes cascading onto the Market like watches.

"Yes it comes with a certificate of Awful dentist cajun". She replied.

"Authentication?"

"Yes if you like".

Gingerly I climbed onto the bar and wiggled my hips in a broadly circular motion.

"What do you think of this gangboys?" I screeched, "Got enough pelvis for one night?" I sneered down at the anonymous faces of colleagues I neither cared about nor cared about.

"Do you think I care about any of you?" I continued, "Well NEWSFLASH people, I don't care about you and I don't even care".

It took just one blown kiss from a former conquest to send me toppling to the floor behind the bar.

I looked up meekly at the girl who was serving me and, by way of explanation, told her "One thing about living in Santa Carla I never could stomach, all the damn vampires".

Child acting

I did a lot of extras work as a kid. I appeared in the background on such things as Grange Hill. I even had a speaking part in Noel's House Party. You may vaguely recall when Noel answered the door to be greeted by a child dressed in classic Chimney Sweep attire - that was me. I can't remember what I said but I do remember watching it back and for some reason I am looking above me to the left making me resemble Stevie Wonder.

When I became 16 and the law was more flexible I appeared, once again as an Extra, in 'Ewok Rape Zone'. You may again recall the gratuitous rape scene were the Ewoks capture one of the Storm Troopers that crash in those sky motorbike thingies (some geek to confirm actual name please), then bugger him senseless. I am one of the people in the background grimacing put still rhythmically clapping my hands.

My parents decided, after the sequel "Fur on Fur - the Ewok fuckmaster" that I should no longer persue this careerpath; strictly speaking, at 16, I was able to make my own decisions but my mind was already vulcan mind-melded into oblivion by the sights I has seen and I welcomed the opportunity to once again work on the family farm throttling Geese.

First class buns

He was a short man and has resolved to always bring a stool or small stair whenever he was asked to be a judge at a Cake or preserves competition. All too frequently in the early days he had found himself jumping to reach a slice of coffee and walnut cake and ending up bringing the whole thing down around his ears.

These days however, his diminutive nature was widely known to people on the scene and it wasn't altogether uncommon for him to have been given a piggyback by a local farmer so he could grasp the cake betwixt his chubby fingers with minimal fuss.

But today represented a new competition and no real provision has been made to accommodate him. He therefore effortlessly opened the stepladder, climbed to the top and surveyed the table of baked goods with a trembling lip. It never got any easier gazing at the array of food before him.

He had always maintained to his family and friends that he did not only hate cakes but feared them. His whole life had been arranged so as to avoid any mention or sight of them. Each journey meticulously planned to avoid passing a bakery. Each party only ever attended after an enquiry revealed a lack of cake on the buffet table.

However, his mother, a still mighty influence in her ninety-first year, had insisted he confront his fear and become a judge of the very thing he so despised. Initially he had vomited so hard that he had begun to bleed from the effort. The first few events were marred somewhat by the heady combination of red-flecked sick and cake. But lately his stomach had given up the battle and would tolerate the baked items more securely.
 
They would lay leaden in the very pit of his chest for some time but that was some considerable improvement from projectile vomiting.

And so he stood, with laser pointer in his trembling hand and brought the tiny red beam to rest upon a dishevelled carrot cake. "I will force down a slab of that ginger shit" he bellowed.

Link your womb to the forcefield

I recall in abject terror a strange "Pick your own fruit" weekend over two days last September near my home. Apparently due to a shortage of migrant workers all the fruit is left rotting on the bushes with no one to collect it. They decided to charge a £2.50 entry and let people collect as much as they wanted. Some people came out with modest baskets full but I swear I saw one man re-attaching a trailer full of fruit to his Landrover. He saw me staring and winked at me.

I'd got there at about lunchtime on Sunday. By then the nearest rows had been stripped thoroughly and there was a thick layer of mashed fruit on the ground. Only a few rows away remained loads of fruit and the crowds thinned out the further away you got from the entrance.

Not wanting to stain any nice clothes, I'd turned up in those ones you keep at the back of the cupboard for painting in. But before I could get started, I began to feel rather nostalgic for them and opted to remove my trousers and underwear. Up and down each row I went, grasping fruit. One of mankind's greatest gifts is the opposable thumb that allows us to pluck tiny objects from the mouths of fools. After an hour my thumb, utilised in the fullest to grasp, was tired. My fruit lust nowhere near sated I decided to use my lovelength in place of my thumb. For one further earth hour I reached and grasped the juicy fruit between index finger and wang.

When I got home, the cat observed my purple stained finger and humptube and remarked, "I pity the fool that winds up in an intimate liaison with you" he quipped, whiskers twanging with mirth, "It would be rather like going to bed with a Smurf".

Though I was compelled to dash his impertinent head against the wall, I laughed heartily nonetheless.

Roaring warmth

A small cloud of dust billowed into the air as Ferdinand Dread fell to his knees upon the carpet. The small crowd surrounding the nearby piano failed to notice and carried on singing merrily. Ferdinand tipped his head and stared at the chandelier. Flames leapt all along the twinkling crystal; a reflection of the roaring warmth below.

He crawled toward the piano, then beneath it as the singing reached a crescendo and the group burst into exuberant laughter.

"I must declare the fact that I am fatigued beyond compare" giggled Lady Charlotte, face flushed.

Sir Gordon Gutsface, the pianist, laughed hard. "There is nothing quite so invigorating as a vigorous choral burst!"

Beneath the Piano, Ferdinand began to urinate copiously up and down Lady Charlotte's legs. This was his time, his moment and his victory.

C to the O to the W

Kyle Fluke reached gingerly beneath the raging Bull and gently rotated its ribcage before reinserting it into the animals chest cavity sideways. The animal snorted violently, mist forming in the still morning air. Using a winch he removed both back legs and replaced them with sets of teeth and flaccid tongue. The legs that had been removed were then surgically reattached to the animals face between cheek and snout. Ever so slowly he lowered the animal back to the ground so that it rested on both its original front and new facial legs. It teetered precariously when he started to loosen the straps so he reapplied them. It would take a while for the animal to find its balance, but it had done so swiftly enough the day it was born and would do so again.

Without back legs, the animal had no support for its vast flank. Kyle Fluke confidently predicted that this would be the beauty of this design not its downfall. With all four legs now loaded heavily at the front end of the Bull, its flank would inevitably bob under its own weight down toward the grass. There, its two surgically attached mouths would swiftly bite clumps of grass.

"The added benefit" he bellowed into the clear blue sky, one fist raised "is that I have also implanted a toaster into the damn beast! Why I do declare that you could make as much toast as you want if you only had a fucking plug" he roared with laughter, "in EVERY sense".