The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 07 Nov 2007

I begin to grow weary of the ever-present slurry pool in which I find myself bathed each morning. As you may have gathered, the "sharp matter" has once again perforated the rubber knickers. It seems that regardless of the number of pairs I wear, or the amount of ill-fated earthworms I use to pad them, the confounded things perforate and I wake up tit deep in my own goo. A new approach is clearly required.

This is not a task for today though, I shall simply have to double the count of sandbags at the foot of the bed, for this morning I await the arrival of the "Bulldog Engineer" to sort out my connection to the dutty web.

As such, I intend to skip breakfast and while away the minutes (for surely there can be but few remaining before HIS arrival) in quiet meditation...

9:20 am. Meditiation is rubbish. Opted for a cheeky five-knuckle shuffle instead.
9:20:30 am. Still no sign of this magic internet man. I grow weary.
10:07 am. Shit. Nodded off. No sign of the Engineer though. Phew. Check the jelly in the fridge. Not set. I pass a few delicious minutes confusing a passing starling with my incisive comments on 14th Century cardigan appreciation.
10:42 am. Caught a whiff of my bed sheets and damn near asphyxiated myself. Note: Bed sheets taking on new role. Could save money on sedatives.
11:01 am. Uncle Zebediah is sat in the corner licking the back of a wooden chair and laughing like a little tosser when he gets splinters in his tongue. He's getting blood everywhere. I HATE him. Note to self: Drown Uncle Zebediah if at all possible. You hate him.
12:00:01 PM. Yes. PEE FUCKING EM. No "engineer" and it is now officially the afternoon. Even the bloke on telly says so. Call "Bulldog" to complain. I am told to check the web for updates. Consider me unamused.

Today's research: Ballistics

You see, this is the thing. I've been collecting shrapnel to fire from the blunderbuss. I was going to shoot it at stray dogs at a range of 200 yards and then challenge them to a race at solving a Rubix cube. I just tried it in the flat. Blew a hole in a drugged Jack Russel the size of a bowling ball, and now I've got to put filler in the sodding plaster. You see, Bulldog? Uncle Zebediah has just shat in my shoe. I hate him. Oh don't eat it you sick sick thing.

He ate it. Grim.

14:41 pm. Doorbell...
15:09 pm. That was the Bulldog guy. He was over 2 hours late, offered no apology and then told me he had the wrong part...

I'm disappointed to admit that I got rather cross. I was mean to him. Except that for "was mean to him" read "sedated him with the stench of my bed, tore out his kneecaps with a rusty trowel and then bricked him into a wall".

It's getting pretty crowded in that wall. Still at least the Jehovah's Witness has stopped that fucking infernal sobbing now. He's kicking up one hell of a stench - the engineer man is going to get a shock when he wakes up... Question is, what to do with these two patellae (Latin plural. God I fancy me.) now I've cut them from that chap.
I know...

Today's research: Ballistics Dentistry

Having dried the kneecaps in the oven I have ground them up into dust.

Test One

I shall endeavour to remove some small amount of staining from my tooth to gently abrading it with a mixture of bone matter and butter.

Result

Bone dust mixed with butter is no match for Arm and Hammer. Although Uncle Zebediah has taken to it. He's spreading it under his arms. Liberally. I feel nauseous.

The engineer in the wall seems to have roused himself and it attempting to summon help. I stand another puppy in front of him and fire into it. That shut him up.

17:49 pm. Dinner. 2 puppy dogs tails in a bun. Today has been rubbish.

Will try again tomorrow.