...(An Ongoing Opus)
Crackerjack Palace in the age of Mestatholidius III is a desolate place of much greed and rabid chipmunks wearing radiation suits.
...Half-naked men live in fear.
Fireball of love reduces the hippy to ashes. How ironic. His soul was heard to mutter words of contentment.
Your lies tease and appease the oppresser who sits on his dresser throwing peas at the goblin standing at the doorway. He rejects the peas and chooses instead to accept the tic tacs sent his way by a devious angelbitch who sits on the window ledge looking smug like the Easter Bunny did when he showed up with a shitload of eggs and crushed the guv'nor of Bognor Regis with 'em. "I fucking DO exist, wankers!" he proclaimed, and disappeared in a puff of logic.
Then Jesus showed up with a six-pack of beer but no one noticed.
Meanwhile, Father Christmas was standing in an igloo looking puzzled. "Checkmate!", said Batman.
Patronise me and I won't patronise you, I promise. I'll just whack you on the head with a shovel and steal your lunch money. So sayeth I, Lord Sprocket of the Manor, successor to the word Squish.
Your pudding fingers and marshmallow mind will in no uncertain terms be instruments in the destruction of the known world. The Man Upstairs will yelp and somewhere a chicken-fancier will cash in his chips and consume a jam donut. This shall be the beginning of the age known as I Wanted More Jam, You Sly Bastard, And While You're At It, Don't Put So Many of Those Bloody Eggs In Haribo Starmix Packets. No One Likes Them...Well...Apart From Cecil, But He's a Fat Shit Anyway (Thanks In Advance).
This age lasted for a few millenia. Preparations for the new age (in which the human feedback would be taken into account and actioned) were in their final stages, when The Man Upstairs had one too many shots of Sambucca and crushed the Earth with his elbow. He burst into a spontaneous fit of tears and vowed to never drink again.
He got smashed the following saturday and crushed Jupiter.
The Venezuelan trapeze artist flips through the hoop and lands in China. He blinks twice and is transported to Turkey. Fascinated by this chain of events, he clicks his heels together thrice. But nothing happens. Shortly afterwards, an old man of grizzled disposition, with a fez on top of his shiny head, walks up to our bemused Venezuelan and tells him in a matter-of-fact sort of way that he is now dead. "I ain't dead." Suddenly, with a dexterity that belies his appearance, the old man whips off his fez and slaps the Venezuelan four times across the face with it. "It's "I am not dead", you cretin! Bad grammar!", and with that, the Venezuelan lands in Hell and is poked on the arse with a sharp stick for about 2000 years. His purgatory now complete, he floats peacefully up to Heaven, where his arse is kissed for eternity. But he got bored after a year and flew back down to Hell where the whores are plentiful and Robert Johnson sings the blues.
The End.
The newborn baby jumps out of the womb, lands on his feet, lights a cigar and initiates a discussion on the state of today's economy.
...The intellectual goon wakes from his dream, sits bolt upright in bed and shouts "YES! That's it! I shall have scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast!"
Five unnamed world leaders of sound mental health and five scientists of questionable mental health converged today to discuss the impotence of wrinkle prevention cream and various other products created in order to take advantage of idiots in denial. Many a word of monosyllabic arrogance was uttered and, indeed, said products were removed from the market. As a result, a monacle fell from the eye of an obese toff.
My pillow whispers in my ear at night. It talks of war and a growing downstairs threat. I am to attack the sofa cushions at dawn.
"Apparently classical music makes you more intelligent", said the blonde.
[©Bobby Slim/H-Bo the Sane 2006/7]