Irreverent Distractions No1
The Call of Nature
Copyright © Dave Lassut 2011
Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords
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Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-907630-32-3
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-907630-33-0
There is only love, & we are all one.
All the world’s a stage, and that stage is there to play host to events created by the humans who inhabit it; like a play you don’t have a script for. Some of these events you will find unpleasant, and they will cause you to feel bad. In contrast, other events will make you feel good. The trouble is, there seem to be a lot more things to make you feel bad, than there are things to make you feel good, good, happening. There lies the trap that has most people tangled in the invisible net i.e. if you feel bat the majority of the time, that is what draws the reality of your life to you, be it welcome or unwelcome ... there are no accidents and no coincidences, an no one is at fault.
The cure, I find, is to laugh at everything, by looking right through everything, to the point that you realise that every soul has its own agenda, and ‘will’ live it; whether you like it or not ... as you will too; everybody eventually upsets someone, somehow. So, if every soul has its agenda, what’s the point of getting angry and judging? You ain’t going to buck a strong current.
All humans are doing the same thing, trying to feel better, or good, and there are many different ways of doing this depending on what makes you feel good, and other people who are watching you, will find cause to feel bad. I hope that the little ditties in this offering are sarcastic, cynical, comical, horrible, dark, insulting, offending, and maybe even funny? And so, as you sit ion the train, or in your garden, or wherever, reading them, hopefully you will be spitting nails and planning how you’re going to find me and beat the shit out of me .. but, your mind will at least be off, Recessions, Bin Laden, Japans nuclear thing, crime, hoodies, drugs, murders etc, and then you get ten minutes with your mind off the different shows taking part on the world stage, and who knows, you may even learn how to laugh at them, and put an extra 1% into your ‘feel good’ pot, which is better than 1% in your ‘feel bad’ pot.
I’m in no way ‘organised religious’, although I do like it because I find it hilarious, and as religious leaders etc also have souls, they must be part of the same play we all feature in?
Anyway ... here are a few statements from a still popular guy; it is unlikely they will point these out to you in church:
“Forgive them father for they know not what they do” ...
I can never figure these out, because it doesn’t say in the bible that he had a note taking PA.
“Does it not say in your scriptures, ‘ye are ‘all’ Gods?’ ... that was said in a temple, no mention of anyone taking notes. But, I can imagine one of the angry priests saying: “Well, yes it does, but, that’s for the select few to know.”
So. Please be offended, I’m relying on it.
***
THE CALL OF NATURE
Humans have a strange habit. Why do lots and lots of us have a fascination with watching animals eating?
Went to Stratford flutterby (butterfly) farm yesterday, which is a large greenhouse structure full of plants with tatty looking leaves; someone ought to spray the bloody caterpillars, there are plenty of toxic sprays available to give the plants some chemo and choke the soil, so there are no excuses.
Inside is a bit like the Velociraptor cage in Jurassic Park, and maybe not the place to break into at night if you are a crazed entomologist looking for new specimens to expand the collection from three cabbage whites and a red admiral, because you never know what’s hiding there in the foliage. The most popular place was this large piece of log, on which were pieces of fruit. The flutterbys showed no fear, as they landed on the fruit to feed. They also landed on people, which is always a nice feeling ... the feeling of ‘Well, at least someone/thing likes me. Wonder why my family hate me?’
I would say there were about ten to fifteen different species, but I’m probably wrong. There is also bug department off to one side, where you can look at motionless scorpions, spiders, ants etc. The ants are leafcutters, who run along a rope that hangs like a rollercoaster from the ceiling; I reckon a few thousand soldier ants would liven things up a bit. And on the scorpion and spider tanks, why don’t they have sticks set into rubber mounts in the glass, with which you can poke a little movement into the little cuties?
By far the most thought invoking exhibit is in the caterpillar dept on the other side of Jurassic, because in one glass case are the chrysalis cases of some Japanese moth, which I forget the name of. These were the biggest examples in the place, locked in a case, typical!
In the main tropical bit, there was a couple with a cute little blonde girl (the dad looked like he was at home, but needed the stone-age animal skin wrap to display his true nature, and the mother looked a little ... erm ...dim?). The mother had a big butterfly on her hand (someone/thing liked her!), and she didn’t seem to mind the fact that that particular specimen didn’t have a proboscis, but very sharp teeth, and it was chewing into her wrist, and blood war a dripping ... the species is called the Medicalis Haemosucrose, and chews into your wrist when you have high blood sugar; it’s a friendly warning, especially if you’re a diabetic in a tropical flutterby farm, and you’ve passed into a coma, and fallen into the little pond bit, and the three foot croc has gotten a hold of you (the father will be figuring out how to take her picture on his mobile).
Everytime the mother held this flutterby, the size of her daughter’s head, one inch from the little girls’ face, which was emitting a high pitched scream; and so she strengthened the phobia she had just placed in her daughter’s mind. The screaming daughter tried to hide in a bush, and the parents just, turned backs on her ignored her (Madeline replay coming up?).
One day, a suitor will buy her a butterfly brooch, and she will murder him. And someone would sing:
Boomtown Rats (ish).
And her father doesn’t understand it, “ I always thought she was as good as gold. Grunt.”
And he can see no reasons cos he’s blind to reason, why she cut her boyfriends thro! O! O! O! oat.
Tell me why I don’t like butter-flys (and bank holiday Mon-days)
Tell me why I don’t like butter fly i iies (and bank holiday Mon da ays)
Tell me why I don’t like butter-flys (and bank holiday mon-days
I wanna bur ur ur urr urrrrrrrrn, this whole place down.
Then I had a fantasy. The Japanese moth, to a child of her size, would look like the moth in the horror film, Mimic. So, it could fly in, grab her by the shoulders, and fly her off to somewhere nice and actually look after her?
For fucks sake. Parents.
It’s true what Philip Larkin said in his famous poem:
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
But ... away from the ‘hidden in the mind’ horror of the darker side of flutterby farms ...
Competition:
If you sympathise with the little girl, and someone said, here’s a shotgun and a load of cartridges. You have to shoot as many flutterbys as you can, while they are FLYING, before they all escape through the holes you blast in the glass roof (then get caught by children on holiday and have their wings and legs pulled off). How many do you think you would get? How many do you think Arnie and his team of Marines in Predator would get?
People who have shotguns and go clay pigeon shooting are not allowed to enter.
Nearest guess wins.
(Or would you rather shoot the parents???)
Ok. Right, I enjoyed that. But now, back to the main Cumbrian Pub that I like to visit when I go to the the lakes. The Bulls Hit (more fun than the Bulls Head or the Bull and Butcher).
Ahem!
Animals do exactly what humans want to do but can’t, because of terrible Devil spawn things called bills. Animals laze round, eat, and sometimes have sex to procreate. Well, ok, ignore the sex bit, because animals do that to reproduce while humans do it for pleasure, and to reproduce ‘themselves’ to hope their children can make the world a better place (chavs do it for cider, skunk, weed, charlie, etc, thus making their personal worlds better places). But, most of the time, animals don’t do anything much; they just hang around waiting for the next meal to pass by, or snuffle and sniff around looking for the next meal. How exciting!
Are we humans bored?
We also have a fascination with feeding them, usually with bread. And, if we go to the zoo, we love feeding time. I think ducks and other waterfowl on ponds must get really fed up of bread, and I think that someone should invent a waterproof ‘paté’ which benefits ducks. And just think, they could get a few tubs and actually swap them for some tubs of actual duck paté in the supermarket. “Hmmmm, George. This sounds good, duck paté with weed, water cress, tadpoles, and frog’s liver!”
The other night on TV, there was a programme, filmed in Africa; it was about a dead elephant.The elephant had been badly wounded by poachers who were after its gold fillings, and the complete extermination of all elephants for their gold fillings too. You would think that the elephants would catch on and ask for amalgam fillings, or tooth coloured ones, and, while they are at it, ask the dentist if he or she can remove the tusks, drill hole’s into the remaining stumps, and fit enamel ‘post’ crowns. The treated animals could then wear a special hat with a flag on it to tell the poachers or trophy hunters, ‘No booty here sorry, crowns’.
The unfortunate beast had been found very ill, and sent on its merry way into the ‘light’ by a vet.
The point of the programme was to watch predators eating it, that old fascination again. The people doing the filming were interested to see the range of predators, and the order in which they came. Actually and between you and me, the crew were all in the vehicles, wanking over this wonderful opportunity; animals eating!
How would they fare in the pie section of Coventry City FCs Ricoh Arena, cos it can be quite, animalistic ... would they be able to keep them in their pants? ... Their ‘hands’ in the case of the ladies.
The first animals on the scene were spotted hyenas, not the sort of thing you would want as a pet, as they are notoriously hard to housetrain and to get to sit, and fetch a stick back in the park; they tend to bring back small dogs, children, but they ignore thrown sticks. Mind you, they are useful in city centres as they like to snack on Rottweilers; which is illegal, and hyenas can be sent to jail for such a crime.
One brave male approached the corpse, and when it had checked out the area with ears and nose, it went for it! The masturbation in the vehicles increased as the hyena began on the ‘anus’ of the elephant; soft you see. Well, it was the first thing they had seen move all day, and to have the moving thing eating too! Overwhelming.
The hyena began to push its head right into the elephant’s ass, (new scope for a porn film if there is a director watching ... and it must be possible, because the number of people I’ve met over the years with their heads up their own asses is incredible ... it’s best to remove glasses first) eating the meat of the anal passage, a meat called ‘melt’ because it just melts in your mouth. It’s an old delicacy gorged on by the skint but proud working classes before going down t’t pit, because “Eeee! It sticks to thee ribs lad!” That was in the days when elephants roamed England of course.
Well, this hyena, looking like it was eating the best chinky in the world, pushed in its head again, and unfortunately bit through the tube, and broke into a world of decomposition gases. There was a large fart, and the hyena shot through the air, and became the first hyena ever to join some roosting vultures in a nearby leafless tree. The fart was heard throughout Africa, and appeared on the Richter scale; and it stopped the researchers on the vinegar strokes. Which is always very disappointing.
If the elephant had dropped that one in the herd, it would have been banished.By the way, when the flies turned up, laid eggs, and a sea of maggots turned up very quickly and began to swim in a sea of liquid elephant, there was almost a mass orgy between the excited researchers.
****
THE HEATWAVE, APRIL 2011
It must be because I’m not fully British or something? My dad was Polish, and at one time, so my mum told me, he escaped from a labour camp or something similar in Siberia, so he must have been used to the cold.
I’m terrible in hot weather, and can’t understand people celebrating when heatwaves come along. The Sun destroys my eyes, and I can’t breathe, my heart rate goes up, I walk like a sloth, and sweating with no exertion is such fun. I was brought up in the North, and in the nuclear reactor Summers, I could go swim in the sea, or to a clean river, which was still very cold even though the weather was nuts. I would jump in, and hang underwater in the cold and just float along in the deep parts; no one ever jumped in to save me, the bastards! I reckon, that during some occasions when my parents were there, watching my limp body float along, if mobile phones had been invented, my organs would have been sold on the black market before I came up for a breath, before diving out of the heat again.
I see it clearly, when they ended the call, ten thousand quid better off, and then saw me climb out the water, wondering why they were cheering and drinking champagne on ice? Then my mother would leap like a female panther, and try and close my windpipe with her strong hands (before returning me to the water screaming “My one and only child has drowned! Boo hoo!”).
During this working class craving of money behaviour, my dad would hide up a tree, fearing that he would be next.
Now, I had a thought about the wonderful floating under the cool water bit. I think it would be a great idea to have those electric trolley things that the old people and some disabled use to roll around town, bumping into people and running over toes. They remind me of the leader of the Daleks, Mr Davros Flatley, who liked to Dance, but never on camera ... (the cast called him that).
I’ve seen those things with polythene soft tops, and I reckon that that is an oxygen tent, and the owner is actually at death’s door, and so the tent actually holds in the smell of decay too; I may be wrong, but I don’t think so. I had a great idea though, for the desert conditions. What if the oxygen tent could be, instead, a polycarbonate tank, which could be filled with water? On the back, there could be a refrigeration unit, and, a large oxygen cylinder. They could then be given to people like me, who are adversely affected by the heat, and due to poverty, own only one pair of Y fronts.
Y fronts?
Well, in the desert conditions, when they need washing, its horrible just wearing jeans with nothing underneath. This is because not only do I like feeling like a whore i.e. no knickers, and it also gets very ‘rubby’, for want of a better word.
There would be a sealable door on the side, just like one of those ‘walk in’ baths, and when in, the sealable door in the ceiling part could be opened (like those ones fitted to tanks or submarines). The owner could then drive to the water tank in the back yard or garden, position the pipe above the opening, pull the chain, and hey presto! The top could then be sealed. It would be important to put the oxygen pipe into the mouth before filling the tank of course, and don the tinted swimming goggles. Inside would be the refrigeration control; bliss.
Marvellous!
And then, the owner could go trundling round the hot city in total ‘air conditioned water’. Those who like to be different could maybe have a goldfish or something inside? People from rough housing estates could maybe have a couple of stressed looking piranhas trying their best to avoid the loony. Problem solving would be easy too i.e. if the owner wanted to go to the bank maybe, there would be a temporary glitch as they pulled up outside, and opened the door, soaking several people in the process; but how could they complain in the horrible scorching weather? Miserable bastards.
This would cause an obvious problem on re entry, when the desert conditions would change the cool box into a hot box fit only for tomato vines or grapes, or torturing dogs; and so, there must be several filling stations in towns and cities. Or the owner could ring the fire brigade who could come and refill the trolley? They would love that, as they love going round acting macho and posing.
If you have a goldfish, just leave it for the pigeons that are usually starving so much they will eat anything (piranhas eat pigeons).
A great idea?
I think so.
There is also an application that will save a lot of money for the NHS (I feel management’s ears prick up even as I think this one up).
If you have a fridge, the fridge works too hard if you have nothing in it, and so, you have a bigger electricity bill. Think of the bill for a morgue, which relies on refrigerating bodies to keep the refrigeration unit economical. What if the local death rate is so lousy that the local undertakers have to send their wives/husbands/partners out lap and pole dancing just to make ends meet. (It’s very lucrative dancing around Poles these days, as they love it and pay very generously ... I’m half Polish ok)
Well. Here’s my idea. If pensioners were given the same mobile scooters with water tanks, and were getting a new lease of life trundling around at a refreshing 10 degrees C, all happy and stuff, and local hospital management had just had a shocker with the morgue refrigeration bill ... what if they had an over ride remote control, ... and if they saw a pensioner trundle past, blowing bubbles and looking happy ... and what if the manager could turn the refrigeration control to ‘deep freeze’? Hmmmmm?
From what I hear, the person wouldn’t realise as they slipped into a lovely coma as they were slowly encased into a block of ice. The inside of the trolley could even be shaped so they could be easily transported to the morgue, and then stacked neatly. The refrigeration bill could be wiped out. If anybody complains about the disappearance of Gramps, all that could be said was that he signed the contract for the trolley, and in the small print, carefully hidden, it says. “I agree to being cryogenically preserved, and brought back to life in the year 4026.”
Wouldn’t that be awful.
The year is 4026. The population is very intelligent and young (Universities worked! ... This is a fantasy remember). The Devil no longer exists, and has been replaced by mothers/parents!!.
Sorrrry, I meant pensioners. These strange old looking humans, which supposedly existed a long time ago, and live only in scary myths people now use to scare disobedient children, are suddenly ‘real’, and all of a sudden, in the city or town centre, there appear hundreds of thawed out ‘walking dead’ pensioners, wandering aimlessly around, moaning, whining, about the evils of the weather, where the hell did they leave the shopping trolley? The government, and at the same time, seeking care off the government and love and support (which they never gave) off their long dead children ... what a terrible shock that would be.
LOL!
The government is an organisation which gives the people what they really want i.e. something to moan about, until they demand a new government, which then gives the people what they really want, which is something to moan about, until they demand a new government ...ad infinitum. It is a good job that God made life eternal, because that’s about how long it is going to take for the penny to drop; or the cent if you’re American.
Tip: If you want your governors to voluntarily sign themselves into a loony bin, just support them 100%, and they will be at a loss what to do, except, sign themselves into a loony bin. LOL!
****
THE FEELGOOD DISPENSER
I had a bit of a disappointment today, a couple of hours before I wrote this actually. I was walking through the city going to the bank, jumping from shady area to shady area, trying to understand those who looked like they loved the Sun ...
I know how a vampire feels. I went into the bank, and headed for the indoor cash dispenser. I usually get on the floor and crawl to them, reach up, and using a make up mirror, insert card and tap in the info ... I do this so that maybe it will spit out the cash before it realises it is me. I looked at it, and the usually plain boring screen was gorgeous. It looked almost holographic, and was a lovely rainbow colour. I thought, what a good idea! I could have stared at the moving pattern all afternoon, which cleverly moved with the liquidness of my ‘airbender’ movements. I commented to one of the clerks how nice it was, and how great it was for the bank to build a feelgood cash dispenser for the lucky customers. She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. She stared at the dispenser in a puzzled fashion. Then she looked at me and informed me that nothing had been changed. I then noticed that the inside of the bank was rather dark. Were they that hard up that they were now using low wattage bulbs? The screen then turned to the normal boring screen as I removed my cool shades.
It was actually disappointment at its worse.
However, I re entered the Sahara, twenty quid better off.
***
EASTER, A B-LAUGH-SPHEMER
The fine art of SINicism (a lovely gift from God).
If
you’re a Christian, please don’t get offended
... laugh.
I love Easter, and I love Christians TV entertainment cannot mach their behaviour.
After I left the bank, I walked across the city centre today, and, to my great delight, there were my brother’s and sisters in their usual place in the shopping precinct. The glorious Christians! God’s chosen representatives on this earth automatically blessing the concrete jungle floor under their feet, erasing sin without even realising it, like a radiator rids washing of dampness, guiding the ignorant i.e. ‘me’.
By the way, a city shopping precinct is a place where the city people go to spend money they haven’t got, to create more money they haven’t got, to buy things to make themselves feel good, when feeling good is something that starts inside out, and doesn’t work from the outside in ...
That was well said, and I think I now deserve a drink!
My extended family were singing, and yelling some facts and figures about their first love, Jesus.
I bought my fish and a loaf of bread from the shop, and felt a strange tugging towards the group. These ‘sermon on no mount’ (the Midland’s is fairly flat) always have a number of disabled and learning difficulty members, just like the Jesus Army, who never seem to get cured. Maybe they have less faith than mustard seeds. Hmmmmmm?
One of the women, a posh looking one, who I would guess obviously sorted the donations account, and her hidden account i.e. treasurer ... lives in a nice house in the country while the rest are in the local nuthouse and a block of city centre flats. Jesus obviously likes her ‘more’? Well, she said; “If you have the courage to come up here, we will humbly wash your feet.” What she really said, was “I will not get my expensive clothes splashed with the contaminated water off your working class sinning feet, but that numpty with the eyes staring in different directions and was asked to play the lead role in the Hunchback of Notre Dame will do it.”
Later, after he’s scrubbed the muck from between the toes of a few housing estate women who fancied being deflowered by Quazi (bestiality fetish). But then, several beautiful women stepped up wearing sexy high heels, with beautifully varnished toenails, under the impression that Quazi was the second coming (he wasn’t far off the first actually ... in his pant’s, and not to call at the Vatican to deliver the bad news i.e. I’m back, now piss off). He seemed to enjoy washing these feet as the women writhed in the chair, rubbing their crotches, whimpering “Oh Jesus! Oooohhhhh Jeesuuuuussss!” They were saying what they normally said in sexual perfection, but they had the man they always called the name of, actually washing ‘their’ feet! Would he drop the holier than thou attitude and extend to a bit of toe sucking and licking? (Personally, I think Jesus timed it all wrong).
In trials, nine out of ten women with nice feet preferred Jesus reps to Firemen at Christian town centre bollockfests, say scientists. Professor Brian Cox would not comment, as he was having some personal fun with a book on the scientific guess about the Universe.
Quazi also looked very much at home washing the feet of some of the men who did the same thing, except as they rubbed ‘their’ crotches, they said “Oh Jesus Chriiiiiissssstttttt!” as they reached the good bit. When he was finished, he was magnetised to come over to me, thinking he could raise his profile after being humbled by the feet washing, and feed the five thousand maxed out credit card shoppers looking for a hand from their saviour; using MY shopping!”
He looked at me, dribbling, with a bulge in his trousers. “Me feed the people?”
I asked him why he was dribbling?
“Ohhhhh boss. Thinking of the foot fetish wank night on Wednesday at the Christian Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses soup kitchen for the poor, one pound fifty a cup. We have taken some random words out of the new testament gospels, and discovered that if we pick out certain letters from the words and make a new sentence from them, it says, Jesus Christ has a foot fetish! And, ‘Relief with something to focus on is good and Godly’ (true!) Who needs Michael Drosnin?! And so, we have a Jesus foot fetish wank night. Jesus is lord and he dies to save us all for our sins of the father son and Holy Spirit. Amen.”
PS.
I have some news that may shock you.
I was told tonight, the 22 April 2011, the hottest April on record, and the playground for those who should be transported to a desert if they love being uncomfortable that much. I reckon though that if these weirdo heatwave loving people were actually moved to a desert, they would soon get fed up, and soon begin to crave rain, and be cool ... but then, back in the UK, as soon as the refreshing dark clouds moved in, they would begin to whinge about the bad weather.
Well, once they have their wish and are gone to the mirages and dry lips, and skeletons of horned beasts, they can fuck off. They can leave the cool weather to those who appreciate it, and I’ll tell you what; the roads will be less busy without them. On the news they would say “The heat is getting a bit too much, can we come back please?”
No you fucking can’t, the roads are less busy without you ‘glorious heatwave’ mob,”
But. There is something happening during Easter heatwaves that is a lot more scary.
Some people like to go and sit in the garden with a dish of cool water, and place their feet in it, which is fine. You can gently force your aged parents out of their (death) bed, to go out into the garden, and soak their feet; the smell of death which has infiltrated the carpets can then waft away on the wind, and make people up the street think that the Chinky has just opened (I love Chinese food); not to mention the vitamin D they will benefit from.
BUT!
The Christians from downtown, keen to spread the word of humbleness, and increase revenue for the working/middle class hierarchy ... have taken to creeping round fences and hedgerows of half decent suburban properties, especially those with nice double glazing.
They have listening devices, and listen for ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’ and maybe the sound of feet sploshing in water.
Those Christians in Coventry at least, ordered a bulk load of pole vault poles, and use them to allow them to fly through the air and land in gardens where people have their feet in dishes of water. They prefer young people as they are easily influenced, or old people who are easily scared.
“Hello. I’m a pole vaulting Christian, come to show you that I am the same as you, but you aren’t quite the same as me, unless you can believe what I believe ... BUT, I am prepared to wash your feet. I’ll resent it because you live in this lovely house, but I live in squalor in a block of flats situated in the bad part of town; do you want me to wash your feet? And do you believe that Jesus died to save us all, and that Revelations was written with a clear mind, which means that it isn’t entertaining bullshit which fools take seriously?” (Offence intended, forgive me)
HOW TO GET RID OF EASTER POLE VAULTING CHRISTIANS INTENT ON WASHING YOUR FEET
www.Christian.Banish.com
1 fruit tree, plus one ‘wrap round branch’ speaking rubber python.
The snake says, “Look knob. The house owner doesn’t want their feet rubbing by a Christian; thanks all the same. Now pHiss off”
LOL! Offence, and I love you all ... for God’s love is unconditional and available to all. And, I write these stories to stop God from getting her hands dirty.
***
Went to a car boot sale Sunday morning. On one table was a kit, suitable for someone in a loony bin, or a prison. It was a book on constructing matchstick things. Something for a bank holiday if the weather is crap.
If you by any chance work in a nuthouse and want to get it for an inmate, it’s called “Make matchstick men, cats and dogs and stuff” and is by L S Lowry. In the foreword, which has now been removed, he says “Well, I got really pissed off with painting crap pictures on cardboard fucking boxes, and so, I began to make the things instead, out of matchsticks. I built many 3D models, but people told me, ‘Look Lol, they’re too complicated; it’s paintings people like, and even though yours are childish and crap, they will be what people want ... after you’re dead of course’...
So. All of Lol’s brilliant 3D matchstick constructions were gathered together by academic art critics, and trashed.
But. I looked at this book, and considered it, but then thought, “Wouldn’t it be nicer, and this hobby was brought into the present? What if someone could make major models out of the coloured transparent polycarbonate gas ‘lighters’?” A kind of an ‘update’ on an old idea, you’ll understand?
Imagine stained glass windows churches modern and old, made by kids! They could tear the boring old ones out and let the kids work with a double glazing company. Wouldn’t it be dead easy to make crosses? A little harder to do a Jesus, and then glue him on. They could make a whole altar out of them, and the only reason they would stop the production and put ACME church suppLIES out of business, would be if one of the little girls or boys found that they could actually see the virgin Mary or someone similar, after they had sniffed a copious amount of gas. “Mummy. It’s good stuff this, I saw the Virgin Mary and she was laughing!”
“No she wasn’t dear! She was sad because her only son, begotten by an obviously horny God, was dying to save us all! Oh I love lord Jesus more than life itself! Lord Jesus is our saviour, and he is there for us at all times.”
“But mummy, why is daddy’s and your head, all fucked up over this silly recession then? I do hear you argue when I’m in bed you know. That’s really crap ‘saving’ as far as me and the rest of the kids here in Accident and emergency are concerned. Can’t we just go home, solvent abuse is good, not bad.”
There is an even better effect. I think it was in a Raiders of the Lost Ark film, where Harrison puts a stick in the ground with a jewel in the top, and when the sun shines through it, it casts a beam to the exact spot where the goodies are ...
(Apparently Bill Oddie and his friends Grahame and Tim are stuck under a pyramid).
What if the kids made a really big stained Gas lighter window, and stuck a big magnifying glass in it, which caught the Sun on the afternoon of the Harvest festival, and then sent a laser like beam to the wondrous, funky gas lighter altar where the Priest is giving a sermon. Now, if you’ve seen these things, when they are discarded, they still have gas in them; if they didn’t, the kids wouldn’t be able to sniff them at craft class; think about it!
They could then watch the altar go up and take Father whoever up with it! (Father Baumme Touchere, a French Priest trying his luck in England).All the congregation would wonder why all the kids were getting under the pews just as the beam of light suddenly hit the altar of course. After the beautiful display of fire and light, they could drive their parents cars back home and have a bit of peace for a change while they drank wine and had a good time on the X box. Their surprised looking parents and the Priest would be there, sitting away, and smouldering. Well, ok, the Priest wouldn’t, he would be hanging from a rafter (please don’t laugh, it isn’t nice, especially when someone so loving goes to hell).
Ha but! If the kids were wise, they would have hung around and had some really, really nice toast, from the festival loaves. But, that would have taken some explaining to parents, who would ask “But why do you want a knife and some butter to take to church? The bread is for God in heaven!”...
Who has no stomach! How to get the loaves there?
“Mother, what of the logistics?”
Good old kids! They are the future!
***
MAKE YOUR OWN SOUP
By Frankie ‘Masterchef’ Lassut
If ever you have drunk that shit they have in supermarkets on the soup shelf, this is the healthy option to make you live longer. Never mind Ainsley’s healthy option, do your own. Anything that goes through a factory machine and gets pissed in a shit in by the fucked off workers, is not for ‘your’ gut!
‘You’ want healthy stools! You want your own recipe and half the supermarket vegetable selection in it.
How about this one to start with.
EASY. Mouth wateringly delicious; celery, tomato, pea, and onion soup.
Buy a bunch of celery. I know many don’t like celery, but it is supposed to be good for you. Get one of those vines of little tomatoes, a packet of frozen peas, and one of those large Spanish onions.
Lay these out on your kitchen table, and feel really healthy as you remember the rural looking pile of vegetables on the tin of Scottish Highland Vegetable Soup ... but please don’t try and imagine these vegetables in the expert photographer’s studio, where they are pictured to make you drool; then thrown out the back of the studio into a bin. If the photographer is under the supervision of the supermarket’s artistic advertising director, who wants no food poisoning cases which will blight the reputation of the supermarket chain, the goods are thrown out, but, if the photographer is self employed and going broke, rest assured they will not be in the bin long; and as soon as the wankers are gone ... well, it’s back out the back to the bins. Hope for the sake of the starving photographer, that he or she doesn’t have to fight off several cat sized rats who fancy a carrot and a stick of celery too. Women photographers fare better here, as they can coochy coo the rats, and nestle them between their breasts (large breasted women photographers fare better here). The rats become all relaxed at such a lovely fate, and as they close their eyes in ectasy, she quickly cuts all their throats with a razor blade. For the rats, it’s a cross between a satisfying, and frustrating death’ for the males. For the photographer, it’s another part of the meal.
Chop up your celery, leaves and all ... you may as well throw the leaves in even though they taste like shit, because so does celery. Chop the onion into quarters, and then ask yourself, “Why aren’t my eyes watering?” as mine didn’t tonight???
I suspect GM. The tasteless tomatoes can be chopped, and then open the bag of frozen peas.
Put all into a large saucepan, add water to about halfway up the saucepan, and then stick it on the gas.
Bring to a point near a boil, but not quite a boil.
Here now is the important part.
When the soup has heated enough i.e. the vegetables are soft ... add, several vegetable stock cubes, and a good long squirt of tomato puree ... the squirt before it drops into the liquid should look like the string of shit hanging out of the back of your depressed goldfish which has been trailing a shit for four days.
You add these things because the vegetables you buy from mass production don’t actually taste of anything, and so, just add the several stock cubes and some tomato puree. I seriously thought about just getting a bowl of hot water, and then putting in it a string of tomato puree, and a few stock cubes. Sounds absurd, but it does seem logical; you have to admit!
Next ... Tip the whole lot (now half dangerous chemicals) into a blender, and blend. This part should ensure that you get your mixture all over the kitchen top surface, and some will inevitably run down the cupboard, into the drawer etc...
There should now be several flavours in the mush. This will consist of a slight salt note from the stock cubes, and tomato for the puree. The vegetable mush which is the body of the soup and there to give you good solid turds, is then sieved off, leaving you with a liquid ... which now needs thickening.
Put it back in the original saucepan, and thicken, by adding cornflour mixed into water. You will then find that the tomato and savoury taste (salt) are pushed into the background by the yuck taste of cornflour.
Lose rag, but don’t lose temper. Tip whole fucking lot down sink.
Give up and have some bread and butter and a ‘cup a soup’.
***
LIPOSUCTION
Good grief! … Nurse! Please open the double doors
Engage the hydraulic pistons, underneath the floors
Mrs Smith is here for her NHS liposuck
She's just arrived in the carpark, on a two ton safeload truck
Get the Dyson Contra Rotate, ' new fangle dangled ' pump back out
And a couple of spare containers, which we'll be needing I have no doubt !
Make sure all the fuses are at least, ten amp
And get the mop and bucket, in case the floor, with fat, gets damp.
Hello Mrs Smith, please take a coup ... a seat,
Take that cruel weight, of your poor tired feet
We will see what we can do, with our 'sucky machine'
Try and turn you once again, into a ' gorgeously ' attractive teen.
Well Mrs Smith (suuuuuck!)
Would you like a cup of tea (sluuuurp!)
No charge, you can gladly have, a pyramid bag for free (spuuuurt!)
We've collected enough fat now, to make at least a ton of soap (slither)
Yes! A couple of thousand bars, of that shower stuff on a rope (gloop)
Well, goodbye Mrs Smith, it’s been nice seeing you again!
What!? You've got a crush on pork pies? So you want to come back when?! (gulp)
Yes! You've certainly kept us busy, and our Contra Dyson throbbin!
Ah! Here comes small thin hubby, in your jacked up Reliant Robin.
Tootle pip!
Phew!
“Howard! I 'm starving, put the chip pan on there's a love”
***
EXTREME MAKEOVER
The story of …
NELL
Poor old Nell
Ugly as hell
Face like a bulldog
Crossed with a bullfrog
Body to match
Not a prize catch
Poor old Nell.
Oh Poor old Nell.
Try as she might
A man she couldn’t pull
Leaving her desire
For satisfaction … dull
Oh how negative
So it looked like future strife
For her love life.
Would she ever
Be a wife?
Awwww! Poor old Nell!
One day though, she reached her threshold … she’d really had enough
With herself she must, now be very ‘tough’!
Plastic surgery, may be the key?
“A little bitta rubber, should ‘benefit’ me!”
Thought…
Enthusiasssstic Nell!
***
So, things progressed, as things tend to do
A great surgeon, nay, THE greatest, was found.
But, even the greats feel fear … if not more than the non greats
The Surgeon he felt ‘fear’
Almost shed a panic ‘tear’
Make a silk purse, from a sows ‘ear’?
With just a little cut there … and another, ‘here’…
Well ... (to the tune of Old MacDonald)
Wiiiiiiith! a ‘LARGE’ slice here and a ‘LARGE’ slice there
(here a slice, there a slice, everywhereasliceslice)
Pretty eyelashes for a larvelyvely stare
A LARGE patch here; and, … ‘classic’ breasts!
Dainty hands and dainty feet.
Lady … you will look, so sweet!”
***
Post Op
She felt like the ‘Bride of Franknstein’
Her whole body with ‘bandages entwined’
But she knew, that when she was ‘unfurled’
A brand new Nell would ‘hit the world’.
Go for it Nell!
***
And now …
the moment you’ve all (?) been waiting for…
Then came the day for the grrrand ‘un-ravel’
Surgeons from far and wide did ‘travel’
To see the results ...would this ‘set a trend’?
On this side of ‘gorgeous’ did Nell mend?
We hope so Nell!
Oh boy, we hope so.
There were gasps and applause as the bandage fell
There were laughs and shouts of “bloody hell!”
No longer was she an ugly troll
But a real live, lovely…’rubber doll’!
Her surgeon said ... “Don’t worry Nell
The rubber I’ve used acts like skin as well
Just think darling, no hairy armpits
And gravity will never, bother your ample ti..”
Lucky old Nell!
New Life…
She thought: “I’ve lived a sheltered life”
So she took a few partners to satisfy her demands
They treated her well, and thought “Great! She’s a doll!”
With real teeth! Hair! And gripping hands!
Then one day, she met a ‘special’ mand (without the spelling error, it doesn’t work with the next line, ok darling critics?)
Who was into rubber ... and played in a band
They decided they were, ‘true soul mates’
And the confetti gathered round, the country church gates
Congratulations Nell!
Ding ding ding dong Ding ding ding dong!
Now she is all happy, and has a little ‘doll’ of her own
And she’s no longer, for a friend and lover ‘panicking’
She’s also made a fortune, you’ll never guess how…
I’ll tell you.
A real live designer ... clothes shop, mannequing!
Good old Nell!
Halleluia!
The end
***
FRED!
I wrote this while driving a bus. The look on the prospective passenger's faces as I drove past each stop steering with my knees, was a sight for sore eyes. They complained to the management about me not picking them up. I told the managers that when you have a poem on your mind, you have to get your priorities right. They agreed of course. Sensible people.
This is a short and catchy rhyme, on a young Trout we’ll call Fred,
Who was born via a tiny egg, on a quiet river bed,
Nice crystal clear water, was his nat-u-ral domain,
No extra added chemicals, so no toxic colour stain.
Fred and his fishy friends, were all at play one day,
Doing Dolphin tricks, in a very Troutlike way,
Having fun was their intent, yet in a shiny eye they swam,
In this peaceful little river, fed by a reservoir dam.
The eye belonged to a feathered rainbow, a hunting Fisher King,
Who's only wish that day, was that a fish would be in him,
He sat on a Weeping Willow branch, patiently waiting time,
Will there be a 'quick!' End to this dandy little rhyme?
Well ...
At his chosen moment, the Kingfisher skilfully dived,
In the pool below, the young Trout dancily jived,
But Fred was very alert, and quicksilver with his eye,
And he saw the jewelled body, speeding through the sky,
RAP !
Quick as a flash, Fred shouted “Scatter!”
The fish did at once, never mind “What's the matter?”
And the poor King’s beak, well that was another matter,
It remained quite empty, save that is for some tasteless cold river watter.
(eat your heart out Eminem)
But how then did Fred shout? You're obviously dying to ask,
Wait a sec and I'll tell you, as that's the rhymers task,
Talking for fish including trout, holds nothing really troubly,
They use an underwater tongue, known simply as ‘Bubbly’!
Fred then bid his friends goodbye, and flicked his athletic tail,
Yet another exciting adventure beckons, for this young Trout male,
Really, it is so much fun, being a free little fish,
As long as you didn't end up as, another's dinner dish .
He came across some lush green weed, along the refreshing way,
It tickled his belly and sides, with it's gentle wafting sway,
The water here was cool and the Sun was nicely hot,
Fred unanimously decided, “I like this beauty spot”.
So he thought he'd bask and hang out, for just a little while,
In this beautiful silver sunbeam cage, who says that God don't smile,
As the weeds continued effortlessly, their snakelike mesmeric dance,
Fred found himself alone, in a peaceful aqua trance.
But someone else had stopped off on their daily river hike,
The weed also caressed the body, of a streamline hungry Pike,
Fred was upside down, in the second eye that day,
And the Pike thought “Yum yuu yum! Lunch is on it's way!”
Slowly with precision, he lined up blissful Fred,
Would he soon be staring closely, at a ten times smaller head?
Happy days for Fred would be over no more fun and games with mates,
Time to go and rattle, the rivers Davey Jones style Pearly Gates.
The Pike began his run as Fred thought “Mmmmm what a glorious life!”
His nemesis approached with the speed, of a circus throwers knife,
But a friend was nearby, one Fred warned earlier of the King,
He bubbled “Fred! You're gonna be dead, better do something!”
***
Fred was away very quickly, no need to tell him twice,
He thought “Not bad for one day, already nearly eaten twice!”.
He was speeding through the aqua, Pike close on his tail,
He knew he'd need some luck, on this quiet water trail .
Fred swam so fast for a little fellow, he almost was a blur,
The hungry pike in impressed pursuit thought……
“My word! Sacre Bleu!”
Surely though, if slowly, he gained some important ground,
And Fred 's sensitive hearing detected, a swishing Piketail sound .
Getting slightly out of breath, was our little friend,
If his energy ran out, it would be a toothy end,
He slid torpedolike through the water, towards two large jutting rocks,
Thinking “What's that floating around up there?
A white plastic tupperware box!
The box contained the meat paste sarnies, a fisherman’s dinner bait,
he would chomp away quite merrily, in the competition with his mate,
But just at that very moment, the rod was the last thing on his tete (tett),
He was trying to retrieve his baitbox, with a large weave landing net.
Fred saw his chance and headed for the safety nets yawning mouth,
Changed direction quickly, from North to Western South,
He entered the net like Stingray, and wiggled out the bottom hole,
The Pike was sacre bleuing now, because he wasn't quite so small.
The fisherman he felt the thump, as the Pike it lost the chase,
Then lifting up his ‘catch’, a smile lit up his face,
The Pike was large and handsome, a competition winner,
And when he got back home ... fish and chips for dinner!
Confident as he was, Fred breathed a gillfull sigh of relief,
Once again he'd been spared, the jaws of a life force thief,
He then returned to his friends and joined in another playful game,
That's an hour in the life of our little Trout, Fred's his Christian name.
***
Dear Government.
I watched Fern the other day and James Martin, the Saturday Kitchen Live host was on. On his show, he has a competition involving the two guest chefs. They have to both make an edible three egg omelette and see who manages it the quickest. However, on Fern’s show, I think it was Jenny Eclair who had to make an omelette, out of an ostrich egg. She cracked it with a hammer.
I remembered watching a David Attenborough programme which included ostriches. One had left a nest full of eggs, and local animals and birds were like a starving DSS person with a tin of economy beans, and no tin opener.
They kicked it, pecked it, threw themselves on it etc, but to no avail. Then, a large bird with a large beak had a brainwave. It picked up a rock, and took off. The little furry creatures and the rest of the birds got the idea, and donned safety helmets (Health and safety in the wilderness act. Failure to adhere, you will be sent to a zoo). They then stood back. The first shot bounced off, and the bird landed, and as birds tend to do, stood there blinking, waiting for the next thought, which came. It picked the rock up again, took off. It went high. People in passing airplanes must have wondered what it was up to. Near the edge of the earth’s atmosphere, it dropped the stone, and this time, cracked the egg.
This amazing spectacle made me think. Do you reckon you could save both a fortune in defence, and let a few soldiers home, so they can kill the fireman their Mrs has run off with? Firemen are an alternative to soldiers for women who like men in uniform.
I’m now going to trust that you’ll reward me well with this idea.
The rock dropped by the bird broke the egg, which isn’t surprising, but, ostrich chicks are not exactly masters of the one inch punch, which Uma Thurman demonstrated when she was buried alive in Kill Bill.
How the hell then do baby ostriches manage to get out of such prisons?
Surely you could get some sort of fibre optic device, and beam pictures of the enemy to the ostrich in the egg, with ‘Enemy, Kill’ under each picture. You could also beam in pictures of our own soldiers to it, with the label, ‘Don’t Kill’ underneath it. You would then put the eggs in an incubator, which could be put onto a transporter plane, and then fly over Iraq or wherever the fight is being waged, and put the eggs one by one into pouches which are attached to parachutes. Drop them over enemy territory when you can hear the chick chipping away at the shell inside.
That should sort out the enemy, because due to their reputation, you can’t fuck with a baby ostrich.
And just think, if any get shot or blown up, the remaining soldiers can have a good barbie.
How is that?!
I’ll expect a briefcase full of money, ta.
Frankie
***
Finally. Remember the first story about the flutterby farm (I would hazard a guess you do unless you have dementia or something).
Here are some species of flutterbys and moths, some of which may be useful, some better to avoid?
The Majestic Bluewinged Teardrop Clearop
This one is the size of a starling. It lands on your nose, extends its proboscis, puts the tip by your tear duct, and hoovers up your tear water. These can be bought in petshops, and are really useful for people who are broke due to the recession and cry a lot, but can’t afford tissues. If you are really pissed off you can use two or three.
The Major Grollie Green Giant
This pigeon sized flutterby is for people in the same situation, but who have really snotty noses. I won’t describe this one’s action. It is also useful to get one for your child if he has a really snotty nose and you are too poor to afford hankies ... and you don’t like him going ‘groooooonk’ and swallowing it, which is disgusting. The fact that at school he gets bullied to the point of suicide and called ‘snotty nosed little butterfly faced shitbag bastard’, is not as much as the shame of him having week old dried snot on the front of his shirt. Meaning his mum would rather watch Trisha and stuff than wash his clothes (which is boring).
Moths
The Red Winged Vampire Moth
This mouse sized moth gets blown here from Australia in large numbers. It flies in people’s bedroom windows on warm nights and sucks blood, in the same way as a mosquito, as it has a sharp end on its double proboscis. It sucks anyone’s blood, and couldn’t distinguish a virgin from a porn star; not that it cares.
However, they are hardly ever seen as they have a deadly enemy which is thought to be the only responsible moth in the world, it is called the Van Helsing Red Winged Vampire Moth Killer Moth. The Van Helsing is never far away from the Vampire Moth, and if the Vampire Moth looks like it is going to get up to mischief, which is every night, the Van Helsing moth gives chase. It can fire a dart at the Vampire moth which must penetrate the heart. If it misses, the Van Helsing, which only has one dart, (another grows quickly, but not that quickly) must chase the Vampire all night until sunrise; the Vampire Moth simply pops when the sun’s rays hit it. To rest, the Van Helsing sits in the grass at the side of hedgerows, and 99.999% of them then get pounced on and eaten by Kestrels. Those few who know of this activity know the Kestrel by its ancient name of the Van Helsing Moth, Eating Falcon. If you put the comma after Helsing, you give a completely different meaning to the name.
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(Pages 1-34 show above.)