The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 17 March 2008

Hello. I'm back.

Sorry.

I've been busy.

Well, I say "busy".

For "busy" read: "relentlessly sodomised by three dozen lady-boy triads in a dank back-water prison somewhere in New South Wales". I suppose that's what one gets for over-doing it on the toilet-duck spritzers, falling in with a gang of web-footed cheese-makers from Penge and ultimately being trussed up and lobbed unceremoniously in a ditch just off junction 12 of the M11.

That in itself won't end you up in New South Wales, but being spotted naked in a ditch by a passing Executive Salmon Herder, adopted as a love slave for his over-endowed Dachshund, poached in a vat of lime cordial for 3 days and sold to a burly seaman bound for the Antipodes to prevent scurvy, will.

It won't get you incarcerated, however. For that you're going to have to break free of your bonds (it's easier if they're made of vegetarian geletin), administer a corking atomic wedgie to the aforesaid sailor before sprinting, bare-arsed, around Sydney harbour.

If you then steal a bike and try to cycle naked to the set of Neighbours you'll probably be arrested. Not for cycling naked, but for failing to wear a helmet.

Note: Pointing to the end of your penis and making lewd remarks about the "other kind of helmet" is unlikely to win you the sympathy of Australian Police Constables. Calling them a bunch of ninnies won't curry you much favour either, as it transpires, but it will get you "intimately searched" by an unusually enthusiastic side-armed baton and spanked raw.

All of this goes some way to explaining why there is a man in my fridge.

Thing is, I had rather assumed that he'd have died by now. But he remains. Whimpering a bit and muttering some gibberish about "Daddy's little soldier", but very much alive.

For a time I half suspected that Uncle Zebediah may have been feeding him. Then I reconsidered. Zebediah is stupid, has herpes and I think his bum-hole's starting to fall inside out, so it's probably past him.

So what to do?

I have to admit to having become rather taken with the plucky little so-and-so. He seems to be able to survive by licking the scum off the back wall of the fridge and hasn't yet been bested by the thing that at last count (in late October 2003) was a yoghurt.

More to the point he was astonishingly receptive to being castrated with 15 rubber bands and and an ice pick, and barely winced when I circumcised him with a brick. I suppose he must have gone to boarding school...

Today's research: Food science

I have succeeded in lassoing a small portion of Zebediah's prolapsed rectum with a wire noose. I'm going to feed it to the man in the fridge.

Result: Nope. That killed him.