We all know the scenario – you wake up only hours into Boxing Day to find yourself completely immersed (in what can only be described as pure mayhem) as you slowly realise you are awake, but inexplicably in the home of someone who keeps hundreds and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of live, flapping pike who can breathe out of water but otherwise seem uncomfortable in their newfangled domestic abode (or abodes, - Ed.). The traditional method of solving this rather unpleasant, unnecessary and wholly impossible conundrum has been to douse your new (or if you're lucky and make it back to your own universe/reality, which few, if any, rarely do - temporary) home in petrol and then methodically put fire to every room in turn. Despite the effectiveness of such a measure, it has more often than not lead to the loss of property, family and a somewhat noticeably different, rather bizarre, level of respect in the community, be it your original community or the one wherever you currently are, voluntarily or not. Verbosity aside, here's ten guaranteed methods for safely (not true) dealing with the above scenario, dubbed the “metaphysical pike improbability” by our staff (well no, by me. Ed. Note: metaphysical pike improbability is an impossibility. I honestly believe that, -Ed. ).
Instructions: follow sequence of commands from one to ten. Or in your favourite order, if you like – the key here is to be relaxed.
1. To start things off, as in, firstly, or, the first thing on the agenda is, agenda here being the ten points, something something and then. Any way to keep things brief, here is the first of the ten points discussed above, or the prior sentence, to be precise. Precision is a fairly good thing, sort of essential, and surely almost vital. Precision. So, point one: avoid, consciously or unconsciously, to somehow wake up in a different universe inhabited with people who keep mutated pike as pets. Apparently the food there is rather bad and then there's the whole pike thing, of course. One must not forget about that particular dreadful business. So to keep things nice and tidy, let's call that end copy for point one, end copy meaning end copy, as in the end of copy. Copy is of course referring to the text, a group to which I guess end belongs - all rather handy seeing as the copy comes after end, thus allowing both words to appear before the actual, in the real sort of sense, copy ends. It does warrant noting, by the way, on this the first of ten inspirational and slightly sinister commands, that when followed in order, these instructions may bring to a swift resolution the Metaphysical Pike Improbability(tm) so as to restore order and Christmas, provided you somehow miraculously make it back to your own universe. Which you won't, to be honest. It's simply impossible. Quite impossible, I assure you. Ah the words, the words...
2. I must admit I have just found the above musings positively disturbing. There will be no point two as I gather my strength and eat a small snack.
3. Once you've recovered in much the same fashion as I suspect I did (just now - see point 2 for reference, but do try to imagine the scene as it may have, and indeed did, unfold just some time before the actual realisation of point 2 and all that did entail), proceed to the next order, by which I mean command, or a rule to follow, like you might have an order of things, by which I mean an order of objects, concepts or perhaps an order of blind but heroic French cats, so as to suggest that an order of things can be an order of indeed anything (as long as it is not impossible, of course. We must not go there). Douse new (or temporary, if you are, unlike me, prone to optimism) home in petrol and put each room on fire, one by one, making sure all pike succumb.
They're going to be surly so “mind the pike!”.
(Ring a bell??? Well then perhaps you, like me, remember with unusual fondness listening to Sugovikamaan (1924, GBC) on Gasmpiradio Wednesday evenings, a programme so amusing it was only topped by its own catchphrase, - “mind the pike!”. Oh how I chuckle, even now, after all these years, even now I chuckle. Like an old git).
4. As the abode is firmly entrenched in flames, as you have duly recovered from the emotional wound of point 2 and, as previously discussed, possibly and in my own case definitely, some time prior to point 2, proceed to point 4, as in this particular point, it being the fourth one. Now commit a heinous, unforgivable sort of crime on or before the night before Boxing Day, making quite sure that you get arrested and severely incarcerated. When you finally get released, as in freed, from the shackles of confinement and rape that sits resolutely like a cul-de-sac at the wrong end of the prison service highway, Boxing Day will be a long gone memory of another life spent collecting soap for fags. And categorically no pike, metaphysical or otherwise.
5. You may now have noticed that point 1, 3, 4 and indeed 2 are one-stop solutions, each providing an opportunity for one, unique method with which to completely eradicate the Metaphysical Pike Improbability, thus making the exercise of following all steps in chronological order somewhat defunct, presuming each command works, which it does (I am very confident on this issue - ask me anything). So it stands to relative reason that by the time you're ready to carry out point, say 3, there are no pikes or house left with which to carry out the current and subsequent commands, by which I mean subsequent as in the points of order, or command, if you prefer that term, in which the orders (or commands, - Ed.) appear, so as to suggest that the action of carrying out the various commands (or orders, - Ed.) in order from one to ten is imperative for the success of the overall plan, by which I mean a strategy that provides the basis if not the entirety of any desired, and planned, action, such as the erecting of a small garden shed, for example, or the clubbing of seal pups.
This is good, and bad. It is good, because, if you had or is having a similar sentiment to the one expressed above, either prior to or during the reading of this paragraph, it means you have been paying attention. It is bad, because of evil, by which I mean evil as in something not very nice.
6. Wear a tye-dye t-shirt and stamp aggressively in a bucket whilst pretending to have a go at social services. Nothing upsets pike more, apparently.
7. Once you've given the petrified pike-swines migraines from all the upset emotions caused by the method in point 6, obviously as preceded by the points that has gone before, such as 2, 6 and 1 (I must declare that the set of three numbers just mentioned, by which I mean made apparent, discussed or stated, are in no particular order whatsoever, apart obviously from the the right order, in which they are decidedly not - although the order is simple, by which I mean it goes in chronological order from one to ten, so to illustrate using the sample population presented above, the correct order of commands (or orders, - Ed.) would be 1, 2 and 6). I completely understand what is going on, so I am only to pleased to clarify things for my readership, by which I mean the people who read my articles, by which I mean people who read what I write, by which I mean just fuck off will you?!?! Now proceed to tie a par of beige briefs to a string and suspend them from the ceiling. The colour beige, combined with a sudden Zeitgeist of bold, gravitational defiance, triggers a neurotic pseudo chemical reaction in the pike's brain, forcing it to grow a wrist and swallow its own brain. Apparently it looks rather nasty, and is not for the faint-hearted, ie those of a faint heart, as in their heart faints easily, or does it mean as in their heart is faint, as in faint hearted? I'll leave it there.
8. Pour 50 litres of wet moss (or dry kelp – same effect, different availability depending on current whereabouts or locations of planned excursions or choices of base) on to a dual carriageway between the hours of four and six on the morning of a hip crescent moon. Make sure no one can see you then curl up for twelve hours in a foetal position and sip lukewarm lard from a leaky cup made of leaves. This particular order of the plan (by which I mean plan as in an order of commands and so forth, see above (or previous, I think, -Ed.) points for a concise presentation of what I am currently referring to, complete, I believe, with examples) requires some commitment. It is said, by which I mean retold, as in told many times possibly to many people, that the bonding with the moss (or kelp, -Ed.) on a dual carriageway, between the hours of four and six, for twelve hours, whilst drinking, nay, sipping, lukewarm lard from a cup made of leaves, much as is described above, brings a rather spiritual twist to the Metaphysical Pike Improbability. Some people have mysteriously reported being run over during this particular task, so caution, as in a type of warning, is advised, and by that I mean advised as in merely suggested but with interests of the recipients at heart.
9. Adopt an orphan ninja.
10. Point 1 is fairly good, as well as point 2 and now 5. Point number 8 is debatable in terms of proven efficiency, but scores extra for spirituality and after hours entertainment. 9 is good. A nice healthy choice with the option of free ninja pre-school for a year, as long as the pre-school is located in Crewe and the orphan ninja is located in Glennvile. Essentially, keep it brief. Brief and concise.
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
Monday, 7 January 2008
Wanted: twig(s)
Twig needed to complete menagerie of sticks and small branches. Will pay anything as long as it's not more than £11.99 (or £11.98 exclusive VAT). Will collect in the Sunderland area. Sticks also bought for cash. Wants to meet other twig collectors for conversation and gentle eroticism. Has steady job and lives near a small group of poplars.
Orlando Baptiste Luxuskaas - the gentleman charlatan, philanthropist and amateur chemist, part one
Orlando Baptiste van Luxuskaas woke up to discover, much to his surprise, that the magic had worked. Instead of his left hand he now had an agile, fleshly lump shaped like a small cape. As he lay there in bed, gently masturbating, he drew his left arm through the air and admired how the wind took to the cape. “Magnificent”, he mused to himself. “Absolutely magnificent!”
After a lacklustre ejaculation he took a shower and delicately washed the human hand cape. “I shall call it Hugo Frantz, and it shall always be with me and keep me company, even though I know it can't speak and that technically it is just a purposely disfigured hand” he thought himself before straightening his pubic hair with an antique tong made from the spleens of Victorian street urchins.
Down in the club, he was proudly showing off his latest, well, “toy”, if you could call it that. He wasn't entirely sure what to call it himself any more (had he ever known?).
“It's a cape. Just a cape – but isn't it awesome - something quite outstanding?” he asked of his peers.
“But do tell us, good sir, what is it, exactly?” replied Les Trout, Esq., one of several members of the club who habitually smeared seal fat on his right lapel as a sign of respect and understanding, a gesture not gone unnoticed by the entire hierarchy of the club, including the president, Inspektor Numse. “Honest fellah, that Trout lad, eh? Shame about his repugnant body odours and scant regard for the etiquette of bridge” Numse had confided, rather clumsily, to a dinner date during a fund raising event for sick laps.
Exactly why Trout had chosen to show his respect in such a fashion was rather unclear. It hardly mattered, though. No one particularly cared, and those who might have were inebriated as a result of caring but trying not by drinking loads of lager.
“Well it is, since you ask, Mr Trout, a cape. A cape instead of a hand. A handcape” Luxuskaas retorted, with some disbelief in his voice such as to suggest he was no friend of Mr Trout, nor a fan thereof.
“It is a cape. Can the good gentlemen not see that with his own eyes, the very ones he uses for looking at choice venison and pictures of Algerian boudoirs?”
“Good sir”, Mr Trout quickly retorted, seemingly finding his stride, “good sir, what you have there, instead of a hand, is no more a cape than the Queen is a complimentary allen key for a self-assembly IKEA chair! No I say sir, that what you have there, is a fleshy lump looking like a bloated man boob shabbily attached to the end of your arm by some Frankensteinian physician, NOT, as you would have it, a cape, hand or otherwise”.
This last comment was met with laughter and uproar from the not inconsiderable crowd that had gathered around the two verbal combatants.
The cape was gently flapping amidst all the commotion. There had to be a draught somewhere in the room.
Unperturbed by such opposition, both in stature and wit, Luxuskaas continued his presentation with an unfaltering enthusiasm normally only observed in the infirm or especially vivacious Norwegians. “You see gentleman, despite the juvenile interjections of the good Mr Halibut (laughter), and I am sure his intentions are as good as he is dumb (even more laughter), what you have before you here tonight is nothing less than a revolution in anatomy and artistry! Behold, the handcape!” and with these words he began parading around the rooms of the club, letting the cape catch wind like a incapacitated raven inexplicably glued to his master's leathery glove.
Reactions varied from gasps of amazement to expressions of disgust and pity, followed by incredulity and a sense of powerlessness. They had seen the impossible here tonight, thanks to him. His arm began getting tired after all the mock flying, and he settled in chair and ordered a brandy.
“We're going to get on just fine, you and me, Hugo Frantz”, he whispered to his handcape whilst skilfully and discreetly dealing with a swift bout of flatulence.
“Just fine”.
After a lacklustre ejaculation he took a shower and delicately washed the human hand cape. “I shall call it Hugo Frantz, and it shall always be with me and keep me company, even though I know it can't speak and that technically it is just a purposely disfigured hand” he thought himself before straightening his pubic hair with an antique tong made from the spleens of Victorian street urchins.
Down in the club, he was proudly showing off his latest, well, “toy”, if you could call it that. He wasn't entirely sure what to call it himself any more (had he ever known?).
“It's a cape. Just a cape – but isn't it awesome - something quite outstanding?” he asked of his peers.
“But do tell us, good sir, what is it, exactly?” replied Les Trout, Esq., one of several members of the club who habitually smeared seal fat on his right lapel as a sign of respect and understanding, a gesture not gone unnoticed by the entire hierarchy of the club, including the president, Inspektor Numse. “Honest fellah, that Trout lad, eh? Shame about his repugnant body odours and scant regard for the etiquette of bridge” Numse had confided, rather clumsily, to a dinner date during a fund raising event for sick laps.
Exactly why Trout had chosen to show his respect in such a fashion was rather unclear. It hardly mattered, though. No one particularly cared, and those who might have were inebriated as a result of caring but trying not by drinking loads of lager.
“Well it is, since you ask, Mr Trout, a cape. A cape instead of a hand. A handcape” Luxuskaas retorted, with some disbelief in his voice such as to suggest he was no friend of Mr Trout, nor a fan thereof.
“It is a cape. Can the good gentlemen not see that with his own eyes, the very ones he uses for looking at choice venison and pictures of Algerian boudoirs?”
“Good sir”, Mr Trout quickly retorted, seemingly finding his stride, “good sir, what you have there, instead of a hand, is no more a cape than the Queen is a complimentary allen key for a self-assembly IKEA chair! No I say sir, that what you have there, is a fleshy lump looking like a bloated man boob shabbily attached to the end of your arm by some Frankensteinian physician, NOT, as you would have it, a cape, hand or otherwise”.
This last comment was met with laughter and uproar from the not inconsiderable crowd that had gathered around the two verbal combatants.
The cape was gently flapping amidst all the commotion. There had to be a draught somewhere in the room.
Unperturbed by such opposition, both in stature and wit, Luxuskaas continued his presentation with an unfaltering enthusiasm normally only observed in the infirm or especially vivacious Norwegians. “You see gentleman, despite the juvenile interjections of the good Mr Halibut (laughter), and I am sure his intentions are as good as he is dumb (even more laughter), what you have before you here tonight is nothing less than a revolution in anatomy and artistry! Behold, the handcape!” and with these words he began parading around the rooms of the club, letting the cape catch wind like a incapacitated raven inexplicably glued to his master's leathery glove.
Reactions varied from gasps of amazement to expressions of disgust and pity, followed by incredulity and a sense of powerlessness. They had seen the impossible here tonight, thanks to him. His arm began getting tired after all the mock flying, and he settled in chair and ordered a brandy.
“We're going to get on just fine, you and me, Hugo Frantz”, he whispered to his handcape whilst skilfully and discreetly dealing with a swift bout of flatulence.
“Just fine”.
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