A day in the life of a Jet Ski

•May 30, 2010 • 1 Comment

Brrrrrum. Brrrummmm. Brrumm Brrumm.

Said the Jet ski.

Honestly I don’t know what that means. But I can tell you that the Jet ski’s absolute favourite thing to do on any occasion was to throw people off it. Like the board game buckaroo or a wild stallion being broken in, it liked to watch people’s faces smash into the surf has it threw them off it’s black leather padding and into the sea.

It liked it so much that it had to think of new and interesting ways to throw a person so it didn’t get so bored. These would be aerial displays and acrobatic phenomena of such class that they would end up on You’ve Been Framed, and such like.

Unfortunately for the Jet ski, it threw of it’s rider so much that it was thought to be faulty thus was removed from active service to rot away at the back of the shed never to be used again.

Doesn’t that just suck?


The lunch box

•May 29, 2010 • Leave a Comment

The lunch box was red with superman on the front. There was a golden latch to seal the box, to keep the contents crisp and fresh, on the front and a plastic handle in order to carry it. In this way it was a completely standard issue packed lunch box in all it’s exterior features.

However there was something dauntingly mysterious the lunch box.

Every time the mother of the child, whose lunch box it was, packed the same lunch every day, something would go missing.

Every day she packed..

A Ham Sandwich, an apple, a munch bunch yogurt and a Mars bar.

At lunch time the ravenous child would reach for his packed lunch and there would be a Mars bar shaped hole. This was so much the case that the child never knew that his mother had actually been packing a Mars bar in his packed lunch every day. Until he watched her pack it that is.

On this occasion the boy was very much looking forward to his Mars bar. But when he reached into his lunch box there was none.

Every day this recurring missing Mars bar would plague the boy. He knew it wasn’t anyone breaking into his packed lunch. Completely bemused, he decided that he would use sellotape to fix it to the box just in case it was falling out as he walked to school. He was surprised to see, in dismay, that there still was no Mars bar.

What actually happened was that a freak phenomena had occurred in the fabric of space creating a fluctuation in reality. Basically something had fucked up causing a black hole in a small boy’s lunch box.

Every time the mum put the Mars bar in the same location in the lunch box, it would slip into the black hole to float in an eternal abyss never to be seen again.

When, or if, we do learn how to access black holes someone will find a area of space solely occupied by floating Mars bars.

The Craving

•May 28, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I knew I had stung by the tattoo needle when I was 15 and I got my first tattoo of a worm through an apple. From that nerve wracking experience I knew that something had infected me under my skin causing me to crave for more and more tattoos.

Unfortunately something stood in the way of my addiction. And the buzz of the tattoo gun in my mind was quelled by the iron fist of my parents. Furious at my underage stain my mother threatened to contact the Bobbies until I told her to do the proverbial one.

Despite this detestation to my wrist tattoo I needed my fix. It only took me seven months until I heard the buzz and felt the sting again. This time I got a blue swallow on my chest. Within my friendship group it became affectionate known as my “Blue Tit”.

Out of experience of my parents dislike of my underage tattooing I concealed my bird for approximately 4 months before it was discovered.

This was the downside. I was in a lot of trouble to say the least, without going into details.

Consequently I haven’t got a tattoo in about a year. But this hasn’t stopped me wanting one, craving it with my whole body. My skin itching to be permanently inked.

Well I’m 18 now. Adult, legal to tattoo.

And I can’t wait.

The Yawn of the Dead

•May 27, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Yawning is completely utterly contagious.

A viscous contamination of the diaphragm causing them to contort into a yawn being forced out of your mouth.

So contagious is a yawn is that what we don’t realise that every time we yawn our heart contorts, twisted and becomes deformed.

Due to this abomination we consequently die.

So think about that next time your doing something mundane like a meeting or a geography class. Every bored yawn you utter brings you closer to a slow painful death.

Ally Minium

•May 26, 2010 • 1 Comment

Ally Minium was a mistake. A failed experiment with a flexible kind of metal known as aluminum molded her body and mind into something unheard of.

Her one predicament of existing was that she was surrounded by some form of electromagnetic field at all times, making her completely magnetic to all forms of metals except tin. As you can imagine this was a slight problem.

Ally usually spent most of her time stuck immobile on the fridge in her kitchen, until someone came and pulled her off, which was near impossible, like a fly being peeled from fly paper.

Most of her possessions were plastic or other anti-magnetic materials. Sometimes she longed to hold a metal knife and fork instead of her red plastic utensils. Alas if she ever tried the knife would become stuck to her for weeks until finally it melted and formed a bump in her metallic skin.

Relationships were also awkward. Her metal body tended to slice flesh, making human and metal lady relationships impossible. Until TinTin, a man created from tin, (if you couldn’t work that out yourself).

To prolong this cliche, TinTin and Ally got married. They didn’t reproduce because, physically metal can’t have babies. They grew a ripe old age of 112, before working out they were actually immortal. Metal doesn’t age it just rusts a bit around the thigh area.

Because of this the couple decided that the best thing would be a suicide pact to end their happy lives. This may sound odd, but they were so happy they didn’t need to live for ever.

Their last wish was that they were to be melted down to form cans of beans.

Remember that when you buy your Heinz.

This story is too ninja for a title.

•May 25, 2010 • 1 Comment

Eucalyptus trees stand no chance against these mighty warriors.

Trained from birth in deserted caves on the Red Rock of Australia, brutal and ruthless natures were breed into these kung fu masters.

So deadly were they that nothing could stand against them, not even the kangaroo boxers from the outback plains could defeat them. The adolescent freak ninja reptiles fell before their wrath like a petal falling from a cactus flower in late spiky bloom.

So dangerous and volatile were they that no-one other than them knew what species of marsupial they were. But of course as Narrator I am all knowing and wise so I know the little buggars were Ninja Koalas.

Disguising their deep meditation and strenuous daily training for sleeping they fooled the fools that they were harmless docile creatures only capable of moving at snail pace. How wrong the fools were.

They were so fast that you didn’t even realise that something had occurred.

Like then.. And then. You see? You saw nothing.

And this story never happened.

The Mouse Cowboy

•May 24, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Moses was always an imaginative mouse. He would pretend as a child that he was a alien, fireman, policeman, a vet or an astronaut, sometimes even dressed up like a woman. But this was something he never told anyone because he enjoyed it most, after dressing up like a cowboy that is.

After hitching a ride on a sugar truck bound for Arizona he arrived exactly where he wanted to be.. In cowboy land,  Varmint-weed, Arizona.

He had everything he needed..

He had spurs.

He had stirrups.

He had chaps.

He had a long coat.

And he had a big hat.

Thus he was set. Waltzing into a saloon he ordered a side of cheese, whiskey and a whore. All of which he spilled on a rather nasty tough looking outlaw called McCheddar.

Challenged to a duel which by the code of cowboys he was bound to except he prepared himself.

Standing in the dust swirls, his hand flexing in slow motion over his gun McCheddar looked fearsome. A stereotypical cowboy flute warbled in the background before..

The draw.

Shots fired..

And one very dead Moses.

In all preparations he had not only failed to realise he didn’t know how to use a gun. He also forgot that he didn’t actually have one.

The Birthday Cake

•May 23, 2010 • 1 Comment

Born from the chemical combination of flour, eggs, sugar, milk and heat. Cakes are beautiful creations of icing, cream and sponge. Cakes are not just for everyday consumption, unlike the majority of cake eaters would assume. No! They can be for special occasions also!

Thus the wedding cakes, the anniversary cake and others were created. But none of these could live up to pedestal status of the Birthday Cake.

Something purely magical and magnificent goes into a birthday cake. Not the artificial preservatives or E numbers, though those do give them a magical hallucinogenic vibe to cake eating, but the actual special feeling you get when you’re sitting in a room with all your friends and relatives, everyone in complete silence tinged with anticipation. Then you see it. The candle light glowing in slow motion (mainly because the cake carrier doesn’t want to drop the two hundred pound cake) and the off-key happy birthday ringing out as you try and conceal you’re childish glee at the prospect of cake.

This is something shared by the birthday cake itself. Created a few hours, even maybe a few weeks before the event, riled up with excitement. Even as the heated molten wax drips onto its sugary icing and the dull echo of happy birthday resounds around it, it can’t contain it’s immense pleasure. Sometimes this is too much and it ended up with the overexcited cake in a mush on the floor and a screaming kid.

That special moment even when the masochistic cake enjoys the knife being driven slowly into its internal sponge, it thinks.

“This IS love like a fat kid that loves cake”

And then is devoured.

Super Duper Mario

•May 20, 2010 • 1 Comment

A plumber by trade. Damsel in distress rescuer by everything else.

Damn woman. You couldn’t leave her alone for a second before she got kidnapped by a giant dinosaur tortoise that can breathe fire. There was no end to her savage need to be saved.

Mario sometimes like to think that his fruity girlfriend only needed saving from herself. Yes, she was a high profile lover.  Mario would forever pick up coins spewed everywhere to fund her enormous lifestyle and the incessant ransom demands for her life.

Sometimes he would think to himself that the giant spiky fire breathing turtle didn’t want him to pay ransoms to him. Mario couldn’t quite but his finger on what it was exactly. Maybe it was the fire pits, the angry mini tortoises and walking mushrooms or the ghosts and flowers all intent on attacking him.

With his brother with a stereotypical name, his mushroom man and his trusty dinosaur with a cute name steed, Mario tried and tried again to save Peach the pink powdered airhead.

In the end he thought to himself.

Fuck it I’ll get a blow up doll.

The headache.

•May 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment

It began like a gnat. Small and irritating, morphing loud and annoying. Snap! Squished and booming. A throbbing vein headache radiating pain from your temples to your kneecaps.

Not content to just torture one area, instead it roams around your head causing immense pain in different places.

Like a dull thumping sumo wrestler stamping his flabby feet on your skull. Thudding and pounding over and over. The sensation causing your temples to vibrate with agony. The top of your head feeling like a goose egg as been laid under your scalp by a mallet.

Your forehead swells to twice the normal size and palpitates like an erect male sex organ. Sharp pains like daggers stab within your consciousness, as if mini demons were stabbing your swollen brain with pitchforks and knives.

An angry beast, grumpy and grouchy it surveys your grey tumid brain choosing a weapon to attack it with. It’s hand moves over a scalpel, a mallet, a jagged rock and a screwdriver until it settles on it’s desired implement of torture: A chainsaw.

Buzz, whack, buzz, brain matter spewing everywhere like strawberries in a lidless blender.

Then your head explodes.