It’s Poodling down.

•May 18, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Yes sir it was raining hard. Cats and Dogs falling out of the sky kind of precipitation.

Fluffy shook out his powdered pink poodle afro and scowled.

He scowled at the dismal weather.

He scowled at the murky puddles.

He scowled at the fluffy pink fur.

He scowled at his poncy owner.

He scowled at his pink rhinestone lead.

But most of all he scowled at himself, and what he had become.

So he doused himself in lighter fluid and set himself alight.

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The Idea Machine

•May 17, 2010 • Leave a Comment

A Machine that creates Ideas, or an Idea Machine, is pretty self explanatory to be honest.

You give it something and it gives you an idea.

No preference. Just feed whatever you like to it. Money, Jewelery, Gold, Shoes, Blood. It’s not fussy about the payment. But the payment does alter the idea received.

An Eye for an Eye, or a Eye for a moderately good idea.

Therefore it stands to reason that the bigger the payment the better the idea. This, however is relative. But this will be explained later.

An author called June Bradbury stumbled upon the idea machine, if by stumbled you mean she googled it and then trekked 5 days to find it, yes she stumbled into it. She was an established author all right, yet the fountain of ideas from which her stories swell from was bone dry like¬† 90 year old vagina. She needed money to survive, and to survive she needed money. Money that came from writing books. What’s more without ideas she couldn’t write books. Thus without books, she would have no money.

She wanted a brilliant story idea. She wanted to be the next Stephen King, no bigger.. J.R.R.R.R.R Tolkien, even bigger!

In order to get this huge idea to write a brilliant story that would make her the biggest and most wonderful spang-tangly writer in existence, she would have to give something huge to receive it.

She gave the idea machine her soul.

Unfortunately without her soul she couldn’t write the story inspired by the huge idea she got from the idea machine. Because without her soul she had no essence. And her life began to deteriorate along with her body.

When they found her, all that was left was a gnarled withered body hunched over a typewriter.

What June didn’t understand was to be a good writer you needed more than a good idea. You need the essence of yourself, and yes that sounds like drivel but without it your story is just an idea without any talent or, if you excuse the pun, soul to it.

Another thing June underestimated through ignorance was the gift basis of the idea machine. All you had to do was believe with the very fabric of willingness was that the gift you were giving was so fantastic that the idea you would receive would be so wonderful that you couldn’t possibly go wrong.

Yes, as simple as that. The idea machine being based on an age old tradition, that authors and writers know especially, called…

Bullshitting.

The Tired Storyteller

•May 16, 2010 • 1 Comment

Once upon a time, a long time ago, one day, in a time long past and all the other cliche story beginnings you can think of. Embark on listing all these epically overused openings to epic journeys and events, and you still would not have touched upon all the cliches that Arthur the twister of tales has used.

Spinner of lines. Bringer of Anecdotes. Twister of Tales. Shepherd of Stories. Feeder of Fables. Weaver of songs. Lister of Limericks. Yes, Arther the bard had told them all. Thus he was the proverbial slag of the narrative.

It was something he was good at. Something that brought home the bread to feed the screaming mouths of his baby birds. To appease the woman with the rolling pin. But mainly because he enjoyed it. Or used to.

To put it plainly, good ol’ Artie was sick and tired. Bored and bemused. Consumed with sheer animosity towards his profession. Like every person who decides to take up their passion as more than a simple hobby to pass the time, choosing instead to pursue it has a career and money making enterprise, Arthur now had come to loathe what he used to adore.

Frustrated and dejected, his stories became bitter and resentful, scornful even. Money dwindled and the rolling pin came down swiftly.

Slightly more motivated, and a lot more bruised, Artie took it upon himself to complete a seemingly impossible thing- for him anyway. He would go a trip to St. Ives, Cornwall where the light was different, supposedly. Here his masterpiece would emerge like a blue whale coming up for air.

What actually happened is he got typhoid and died.

There once was a man called Arthur,
Married to a woman called Martha
Then he went to St.Ives
To sort out his lives
Where his body would lay for hereafter.

The Mummified Panda

•May 15, 2010 • 2 Comments

Ever since he was a cub Wallace had been obsessed with ancient Egyptians. After studying extensively hieroglyphics he had mastered the language. After studying all the countless gods and goddesses he had mastered the culture. After studying every aspect of their science and medication, he had mastered the art of mummification.

This of course was an odd pastime for a panda to frequent. So this obsessive hobby was something Wallace kept secret from his bamboo loving relatives. To them if you weren’t eating bamboo, talking about bamboo, thinking about bamboo or dreaming about bamboo and other bamboo related activities, then it just wasn’t worth the time that could be spent on bamboo.

When Wallace decided that his last wishes would be mummification, he couldn’t quite pin down. It just felt like the right thing to do.

He may never see the pyramids or walk on the same sand the Pharaohs, or bath in the Nile since it was not like a giant panda could just pick himself up and fly by Egyptian Airlines, but in his death he could honor the culture he longed so much to abide by.

After his 35 lifespan he knew that his life was shortening.

Now, I won’t go into detail on the gory graphics of the mummification other to say that his brain looked like candy floss.

And people were pretty horrified by the mummified panda carcass.

Sequined Missiles

•May 14, 2010 • Leave a Comment

We have always been aware of the possibility of life outside of our own. It would be arrogant to assume that in the great expanses of space that we are the only planet that contains life. Arrogant indeed, but we are not as arrogant as those we debate about existing or not

After watching our planet for many centuries they decided it was finally time for them to investigate further before making complete contact. Unfortunately they focused their attentions on a questionable part of the planet: New Zealand. Due to this mishap when sending down scouts for their investigation, they decided that they would attempt to use some kind of space shifting device, in order to alter their appearance to fit in with the general populace. By studying New Zealand their alter shaped took on something not human.

It was sheep.

The population of sheep in New Zealand is actually larger than that of humans, making it not surprising that this misunderstanding took place. However what was more confusing what how the sheep was decorated. It was in fact adorned by sequins, for reasons unknown to anyone but the aliens themselves.

We can only assume they like sparkles.

Once deployed on the planet it set about completing the course assigned to it. Research.

Without trying to sound too preposterous, the shimmery sheep in question, like it’s mother race, have the stereotypical alien ability of telekinesis, I kid you not. Of course just as we thought it was impossible to have such ‘power’ they thought it was paradoxically impossible not to have it. It was not surprising that when the sheep was beamed into a small out in the West country of England, a small town called Ipplepen to be exact, that it was slightly bemused by certain small features. Doors for example confused the sequined mammal immensely as it walked headfirst into it at least five times astounded at the resilience of Earth’s force-fields to intruders.

Yet the thing that puzzled the alien sheep most were the socks. Using it’s movey-stuff-around-without-touching-it-forcey thing it caused the socks to levitate in the air.

While floating this is what the socks thought: “This is not the draw.. Where’s my other pair? This feeling I can’t quite describe it, it’s like, falling into the wash bin. Without the falling part. It must be flying. The swooshing airy feeling it’s so beau-” Thump. The sock fell to the floor, back to it’s original position, by the uninterested, fickle visitor from space.

Another sock was picked up by the invisible hand of the sequined sheep. Another, and another. Socks that were dotted all around the room floating the room consecutively. Then plop. One pink polka dot sock landed on the nose of the spangly creature. Now, because of the different species the smell was completely intoxicating to the alien. With a scene of smell infinitesimally larger than our own, the alien was aghast at the putrid smell, and was nearly knocked out cold.

Insulted by this onslaught of aggression from the socks, it vowed to return and inform the mother ship of these aggressive and primitive life forms.

And Destroy it.

Of course, the planet the sheep was from was a good few lightyears away. So we can expect annihilation of the whole planet due to sock related fiascoes in about, oh..

A few hundred millenia.

Examination

•May 13, 2010 • Leave a Comment

The misunderstood exam papers shivered with anticipation. AQA’s buzzing, CACHE’s eager and the Edexcels trembling with excitement. May time was their favourite time. GCSES, SATS, A levels all rife in the air and the exam papers gibbered with enthusiasm.

The misconception being that the exam papers wanted to punish and to torture those sitting the exams was completely misguided. Malicious lies spread like butter by jilted students whose cramming had backfired leaving them soft like their virginal penises. The exam papers were just doing their jobs, they were unbiased and unwavering. Blame the examiners! They chorused. Don’t shot at the messagers!

Shot at is what they were. Shot at, firebombed, stabbed, strangled, mutilated, scalped, castrated and worse. However, this did not taint the very job that the exam papers long to fulfill. It did not encumber their ability to present information and questions to the partially unwilling audience. Not one bit, something that exam papers everywhere reveled in, so much so that they quivered with the sheer thought of it.

But lets look at a individual exam paper as opposed to the generic. Shuddering with anticipation, it could hardly contain itself when it was placed on the small desk, covered in graffiti like math sums and what your mother has or hasn’t done. When opened with a reluctant sigh by the slimy teenage boy, it had to conceal a little squeal of pleasure. Not at the sigh of discontent but of the pleasure of eyes finally been cast over the tattoo of words on its surface.

Whatever bull-turd question was on its page it didn’t care. The main importance was that it performed its main purpose getting the kid through the exam. Looking around it felt shared glee at the coordinated scribble of enthusiastic pens writing down the individual responses, all unique onto generic line paper. But with dismay it looked at it’s own participant, and saw no response being frantically penned into regulation lines. No the uncommunicative child sat doing nothing with his finger up his…

Something had to be done. Flapping his sheets a little, the exam paper tried in vain to attract the neanderthal’s attention. Nothing, just the accustomed uniform teenage blank stare. Woeful it tried its last resort. Plan Z.901: Cheating.

Magically, as in the magic used when things can’t really be explained, the exam paper made imagery notes flare up on his surface. This was the ticket. Interesting in this phenomena the sticky pubescent leaned forward and studied the exam paper with a frank glare. Finally bells went of in the clockwork mind of the boy and he began to write.

And he wrote and he wrote, sweat dripping from his temples and steam practically oozing out of his scolding pen.

The five minute call was announced, but this did not hinder the pace of writing, only encouraged it.

Time was up. The boy looking satisfied placed his pen on the desk with a victorious look as if he had conquered the beast that is AQA.

The exam paper beamed with inexorable joy, radiating blissful waves unconsciously at the student who for some reason suddenly felt very pleased with himself. This of course did not enter into the exam papers thought stream. It was of no importance to it. It had completed its appointed task and its job now was to be whisked away to some filing cabinet not to be brought out for a few years until sample questions were needed. It did not give the proverbial toss what happened to the student now or even what grade it got.

And so the exam papers were collected and whisked away to the promised filing cabinet-land.

If you were wondering the kid got a B.

The Beard of a Crab

•May 12, 2010 • 3 Comments

Carl was an crab with elephantiasis in his left pincer. This, however wasn’t so much of a problem for crab. In the crabby world; Size Matters. All the lady crabs would flock around him during mating season in order for him to produce offspring with them.

In the pubic environment that Carl and his family frequented, it was vital that breeding was rife as new offspring were needed to replace the old ones so quickly that it just wasn’t true. As they were constantly under attack from scratching and shampoos attempting to evict them from their family nest. Especially as his species was continually under threat from the “Brazilians”.

As Carl was busy minding his own business, sucking blood as he so often did, especially when he was hungry. The nails started the attack on his bristly home, scratching wildly. Carl dodged the attack making use of his strong back legs to thrust him out of the path of destruction. Utilising all six legs, Carl made quick work of getting into safe ground. But it wasn’t far away enough.

Before he knew it his lean body was caught under the cuticle of the nail and was violently whisked away to what he was sure, would be his death.

Actually Carl found himself placed in much softer hair a lot higher than he was before. With a female called Ursula, Carl explored this strange new terrain, and what he saw he liked. There was certainly a much better view up here. And so Ursula and Carl began populating this strange new land in order to invade and gain power for his elite little species of crab.

Soon Carl actually realised where exactly he was.

These were no chin pubes. He was on a beard.

Knitted Love

•May 11, 2010 • 3 Comments

A baby was born.

And so was a scarecrow.

A homemade knitted scarecrow, formed out the the intricate weaving of coloured wool between two knitting needles using garter stitch. Those stitches formed rows, rows formed two legs, two arms, a head, torso and a floppy blue hat with a bumblebee sewed onto the brim.

Knitting is a curious art, that is more often than none associated with old women and your grandma. A misconception and stereotype because knitting is something to be practiced and appreciated by all.

Sparky the Scarecrow was greatly appreciated by sproglet mark 2 of the Hendrickson family. Sproglet mark 2, otherwise known as Phoebe, enjoyed especially gnawing and drooling on Sparky, before throwing him across the room in either hysterical laughter or as an attempt to whack the family dog in the face.

In danger of contradicting myself, Sparky was in fact knitted by Grandma Hendrick as a gift to the new born child. Initially it was hidden from the baby, for fear it would give it nightmares and a lifelong fear of brightly dressed men in hats. In contrast Sproglet mark 2 reveled in Sparky’s marvelous knitted existence.

Then she lost him.

It was a great mystery in Hendrickson family. Circulating conspiracy of the family dog being finally so sick of scarecrow shaped missiles that he had buried poor Sparky in the garden, never to be disturbed from his shallow scarecrowy grave.

Actually Sparky was wedged down the side of a radiator in Sproglet mark 1 room. Squashed and forlorn Sparky envisioned all the good times in his short career as Favourite toy and all the things that he would never do or have to the chance to do. He dreamt of his perfect scarecrowy lady and the scarecrowy children that they would never have…

Until Sparky’s self pitying rant was cut short by the mother fishing him out of the radiator. Something that Sparky couldn’t help but feel disappointed at. It had been so warm in there.

At once Sparky was given back to Sprog 2, who noticed the slightly tilted angle of Sparky’s hat and the sad glint in his button eyes, as if she was looking into his stuffed soul through his knitted exterior and seeing his pain. She saw that he was a lonely scarecrow and something had to be done…

Sparky felt neglected up high on a shelf in the bedroom. With his blue button eyes he peered around the room. The contents were dotted around all manner of places in the shamble of a room. He noticed that there was noone to talk or complain to. Sparky exhaled a deprived sigh and conceded to recoil into his own moping self pity.

An excited sproglet bounded into the room and ceased Sparky by the woolen arm, causing him to descend through the air as if he was flying. Confounded by his sudden air display, Sparky had no choice but the shut his eyes and suppress the urge to vomit rising in his stomach from the unnatural motion. Until he was plonked down to gather his bearings. Which was when he saw her.

Her face was stocking stitch in pastel pink wool and her hair golden yarn. Unlike his blue floppy hat with his bumble bee, hers was purple and had a delicate crotchet daisy sewed to the brim. She worn blue knitted dungarees with authentic soil stains and held another crotchet flower in her hand.

Her name was Magnolia, Maggy for short and she was beautiful.

At once Maggy and Sparky’s hands were carefully sewn together, so they were holding hands, which made Sparky tremble with joy. This way neither of them would be alone ever again. Never to be apart.

To be Forever Together.

The Zombie Teapot.

•May 10, 2010 • 1 Comment

“You have to remove the spout or destroy the bag! Or the infection will spread and England will be lost to a pandemic!.. Tshh.. I repeat…tshhh..” The radio cackled while a hand thumped on it’s exterior.

Quietly and surreptitiously teapots everywhere sat waiting. Some filled up with brewing tea, stewing not knowing that infection was immanent.

The first case of zombification occurred on the 4th of March on Sunday  at precisely 3 in the afternoon, otherwise known as afternoon tea.

The bodies were found soon after, with suspicious beak like wounds in their mutilated skulls. They had owned an orange teapot, shaped like a chicken.

Before anyone knew what had happened, the pandemic surged throughout tea drinking facilities all over Britain. Old women in Morrisons cafe were attacked drinking two pots for 15p. Staff rooms were savaged and the electricians, plumbers and builders, the poor builders, were massacred like the dodos.

By the time the source of the infection had been discovered it was too late. Infected teabags, corrupted with a tainted strand of genetically engineered tealeaves, were dunked into oblivious innocent teapots changing them into brutal mindless monsters.

It seemed like nothing could be done to save the tea drinking people of Britain. Total destruction seemed inevitable.

Until someone, while under attack from a large round blue zombie teapot in Sheffield began to throw all manner of objects like forks, a toaster, vinyl records, vases and even chairs attempting to hit the viscous teapot. When one of these unidentified flying objects collided and knocked off the little teapots spout, thus destroying it.

With this the pandemic ended as millions upon millions teabags were burnt and teapots de-spouted. It seemed that the Zombie Teapot tyranny of brain eating was over…

For now….

The Dust Collectors

•May 9, 2010 • 1 Comment

Sat on the mantelpiece in a desolate room was a dust collector. So named because it sat in the same place everyday of every year, simply collecting dust. All day long; dust dust dust.

The eclectic race of the dust collectors foretold of the great duster, the messiah that in its fluffy green feathery state, come and end the tyranny of dust that was inflicted upon them. Many of the dust collectors were heirlooms or souvenirs from holidays long gone. A tacky mouse wearing a pink frock, that was perched on a toadstool, a clock with monarchy plastered on it and even a donkey wearing a sombrero. All the tat and rubbish bought, given and plundered doomed to live out their existence in dank corners or cabinets, never to be appreciated. Or dusted.

So there they remained in their monotonous lifespans, until the inevitable breakage by an insolent, hyperactive child high on E numbers and ADHD. Swept into the trash to avoid a spanking, not that their parents would have noticed the crack down the side of jumping dolphin figurine from Portugal.

The dust collectors ached for day time TV. Seduced by Cash in the Attic, Bargain hunters, and such like. Antique Roadshow was the highlight of a destitute Sunday evening. Every dust collector dreaming of the day when finally their ignorant owner would pluck them up and take them to the roadshow, to be told that they were actually worth millions. No such luck. These dreams remained fantasy. Besides had their owners thought them of any worth they would have sold them without a seconds hesitation ages ago.

Yes the life of a dust collector was one destined for an enduring tackiness followed by everlasting nothingness. Damned to a complete obtusely tedious crock of crap.

Epiphany then came in the form of a feather duster and some furniture wax.

Nirvana came in the form of a car boot sale.

Here many dust collectors where bought to be given as gifts, used as targets at a paint ball tournament or as ornaments to be placed in homes, on mantelpieces.

Where they would remain forever.

Collecting Dust.