Absurd curve

A group of males (collectively: scientists) have stumbled upon what is believed to be a rare and somewhat malevolent absurd curve. The curve, said by a key witness to be “very weird, possibly odd and unquestionably absurd”, have had the team of scientists from Bracknell University (near Bracknell, or so we're told -) working frantically in their respective labs and bedsits, desperately trying to figure something out.

Professor Alban Flabvius, the head of the postgraduate department for obscene triangles and interactive clay, stumbled upon the first coordinates of the imaginary curve whilst doing routine lab stuff with his partially invisible, partially satanic research assistant Dave Id.

“I woke up like every other morning, as I do, being gently roused by the pre-recorded sound of a Vietnamese village being shelled by incessant grenade fire, narrated by Nigel Havers and produced for Children in Need. After ingesting a considerable, and may I add, deliciously healthy breakfast, consisting of nothing but the reddest meat, I was ready to be clothed. Mr Id got me dressed as usual, this being rather a predictable happening, fairly redundant of shock value! Nothing, however, not even the most crazy mad thing you can imagine, no, not even that, Dave [this last comment was directed to Mr Id, who was sitting a little bit nervously, trying to smoothen a small piece of broken concrete with some tissue] – nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to discover. No sir.... Dave! Stop crying! ..for God's sake man.. “.

After having uttered these words, Flabvius left the room, never to return. Mr Id fell asleep, and would later awake in a panic, suddenly unable to locate his partially invisible body.

Doctor Flabvius' colleague, Professor Jasper Nakataan, the head of Involuntary Geofinance and Hygiene, takes off were Flabvius left off. “What Alban, err Professor Flabvius, saw that morning on his fridge was nothing short of a miracle. He discovered an absurd curve! For us scientific guys, that is almost the Holy Grail. But it is absurd, of course. Highly absurd. And possibly lewd, - Professor Slaim of Snrk University, Spradeballe is currently looking in to the subject as a matter of the utmost urgency. All we can do now is wait”.

Despite these encouraging words, Nakataan believes there is a darker side to this particular curve, something inexplicable that most people can't explain. “I found a curve once”, Nakataan explains, “me and Zlad (Professor Zladivarius Egg, head of Mutual Mycology, Bracknell U.) found it, whilst walking in a ditch at the side of a busy road at night. Zlad fell over something and landed head first in the ditch. When he stood up his face was covered in yuck, but something made me insist he didn't wipe his head”.

Nakataan discovered an absurd curve on Egg's forehand, created by the curvature of Egg's forehead and a small piece of black rubbish that lay stuck to Egg's head. “I took a picture of course, several in fact. I insisted that Zlad shouldn't touch his forehead, and should lean his head back at all times so as to ensure that the rubbish wouldn't come loose, of course. I also forbade him to go to sleep, as again not to dislodge the curve. He didn't seem to understand. I explained the value of the discovery and that we had protect it at all costs until we could get it to a lab. Anyway, Egg didn't seem to agree, so I had to kind of cajole him into taking my orders for the good of science, by brandishing a small revolver in a vaguely threatening manner. I allowed him to sleep, as long as he sat right up in front of me so I could wake him were he about to fall or perhaps in some other way cause the curve to come loose”.

Up until this moment, in what is slowly (!) becoming a long, patently absurd tale, Nakataan had not had proper time to look at the curve. But as Egg sat there, perched uncomfortably against a pole in front of Nakataan, he started to examine the curve. Apart from the obvious absurdity, there was more. “I see in Flabvius' curve what I saw in mine, - pure evil and hell. And utter absurdity, naturally”. Nakataan's curve itself saw an untimely demise. Egg had refused to take commands from Nakataan after which Nakataan, being 5 feet taller than Egg, tied him down to a chair and shot his kneecaps off. Unfortunately, the impact of the bullets was such as to dislodge the piece of rubbish and destroy the curve. “When I realised what had happened, I was angry, I felt betrayed. I shoot Zlad a few more times and subsequently discharged a round once in the floor. I'm not entirely sure why I fired a bullet in the floor – perhaps I was in a mild state of hysteria” Nakataan says before he rolls two dice, shuts his eyes and puts a hand to his forehead as if devastated by the result, takes a deep breath, stands up, starts speaking Spanish whilst getting undressed, then runs down stairs naked unto the streets, laughing and crying (in Spanish, somehow) at the same time.

The curve, believed to be the most absurd of its kind ever to be discovered near Bracknell, is now on display throughout public libraries and museums in Berkshire in the following months: April, June, September, May (in no particular order). Contact months just mentioned to find out where and when the curve will be on show near you (provided you live in or around Berkshire, and pay tax).

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.

The Pike Conundrum

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.

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”.

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The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 20 Nov 2007

Dearest diary,

Please forgive my lassitude. It is late and I am out of gin, but I feel compelled to report on the status of my latest research investigation.

To set the scene, I must first recount the startling revelation of 3 nights ago...

Addled by an evening supping cooking bleach and thrashing a discarded left slipper at imaginary top trumps, the Sand Man found me, in a rubber ring suspended from a lamp post outside Peckham library, at an hour approaching 3.

Spirits aroused by the caustic alkaline and giddied by the slipper's incessant screaming, my dreams took me back to my Nanna's house in Denmark Hill. She was there, absent-mindedly strumming a pubic harp, Grampapy was in his chair, barking quietly, peeling an elderly badger. Auntie Clive was there too. Not visible, but you could hear him enthusiastically violating the shrubbery outside, as Cousin Chip-Fat lashed a piglet roped to a barrel in the cellar with gusto. Amidst it all, there I sat. Hog-tied and fidgeting as the baby eels knawed at my piles, through the sobbing and the holes in the sack I could just make out the television next-door.

I remember it as if it were yesterday, as that, dear hearts, was my first introduction to the poetic pant-soiling masterpiece that is: Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors.

I awoke with a bump the next morning in the boot of a 1987 Datsun Cherry on the way to the bottom of the Thames. Struggling free, the gases in the rubber knickers rendering me bouyant, a hansom group of youths had the good grace to beat the ropes from me with crowbars. I thanked them at length.

And then, as the stars evaporated from my vision, it struck me. Surely the greatest achievement I could make would be to recreate Jayce and his mighty half-plant, half-vehicle companions in REAL LIFE. But not in a sordid way, grafting leaf on to metal or rubber on to bark (..that IS a thought though). But naturally. Lovingly. Slowly. Hence, my latest research project that has consumed my most recent 72 hours.

Today's Research: Bionics

Aim: To create a "wheeled warrior" half organic, half metal, all pant-throbbingly, bed-wettingly amazing. WOOF.

Step one: Locate a metal "partner" with which to mate.

Result: A slow start. After a gentle let down by a wheelbarrow, and a brusque refusal from the number 78 bus I finally located a yellow children's racing bike amenable to my approaches.


Step two: A bike by name, if not by nature.

Result: I am getting sick. I have spent over £13 on this sodding bike. I've taken her to dinner, a "clever" film with that Clooney man in it and the Dirty Dancing Musical, and the little pedally yellow fuck hasn't shown the first sign of putting out. I haven't even got to first base. I am starting to suspect she is a gold-digger. Or a gay.


Result - update: The sly little minx. 4 litres of White Ace and my own vocal rendition of the mating call of Jeremy Clarkson and she gave in.

Tragically though, the scale an vigour of our relations was such that Private Tinkle became firmly lodged in the saddle shaft. One of the more creative explanations I've had to give at A&E - but such is the nature of young love.

Step three: Procreate.

Result:... Heartbreak. OH WOE WOE AND THRICE WOE. As the nettle of love blossomed within my buttocks so did it sting me on the balls.

I caught... that... yellow two-tyred (YES 2 FATTY FAT BITCH) "Fraternising" with a bicycle pump in the garage. I am disconsolate.

Research abandoned.

Solace shall be sought in kettle descaler and mindless belching. Sleep well, sweet reader. The time is for crying... but not until I've sewn Uncle Z to the curtains.

Dormez bien...


Attila.