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.

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.

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…


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.