A trip down to the shops.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
 
Here Comes The Sun.


You may be at home, at work, or in an internet cafe trying to avoid your victim knowing that it's you that has been stalking them for the past four months. Later you may be walking down the street, visiting an ailing relative in hospital, or you might be indulging in some onanism in a public toilet in the restaurant section of your local 'House of Fraser' department store. What will tonight's activities inclide, an early night snuggled up in bed in the middle of a housing estate, milling around in the lobby of a high-rise council tower block, burning a tramp for enjoyment, or simply revelling in the freedoms that swinging brings? No, for tonight will begin and end the most terrifying and life-changing episode in the long history of humankind. Tonight there will be a massive nuclear exchange between France and America. The whole World will be brought to its knees in one press of a button, sending inter-continental ballistic death to both sides, skeletal hands reaching far beyond their geographical borders alone.


Event One:
France announces a trade embargo on American animal products due to the rise in number of cases of BSE in the United States' stocks of cattle. France explains via a spokesman:

Pierre Pantera: "Ministry of Offence"
These fat lumbering beasts must not be allowed to contaminate any French stock directly or indirectly, nor must their cattle. As of this moment France and all French principalities will be turning back all American goods directly at the ports. We have no regret that this action has had to be taken, and in conjunction with our regular sheep-burnings port officials will be very busy now, and will no longer be able to sit on their arses shooting at immigrants from their offices.


The US returns an immediate response:

Dick Burger: "Staff Chief of Joints"
The French smell of poo, their mothers' told me that last night when I was boning them. Sons of bitches. Get me another beer, now, and it better not be any of that French piss that hasn't even been in the fridge!


This initial incitement is enough to ensure that France and America are both at full nuclear readyness, prepared to turn each others' countries into biohazardous wastelands. In actual fact America is at readyness to turn all countries to biohazardous wastelands, but that's beside the point.

It would be after this that all sensible World residents will get into their nuclear bomb-shelters, if they have them. If not a household caught up in this ghastly situation has only one solution, and that is to build a shelter themself in the remaining few hours. There are thorough instructions detailing how to do this here, but it should be noted that all adequate shelters would take far to long to make without the aid of large, yellow, hydraulic machinery, and a greenhouse is likely to afford as much protection in a nuclear blast as a trench roofed with planks.

With the streets empty in anticipation of attack cases of looting and burglary will sky-rocket; one of the few sky-rockets that will not carry a thermo-nuclear payload. Food and water, like sex and regular defacation are essential for the survival of humanity, but these commodities will be at a premium once fiery devastation has scoured the landscape clean of life. Looting is bound to be reduced when the weapons are detonating above all the main cities, bringing relief to most security guards and military personnel brought in to deal with the situation, but when the dust has settled the figures are bound to start creeping up again, like a pervert's hand on a young girls leg. A large dog is an essential in your shelter, firstly in order to stave off the ravaging hordes of criminals desparate for your tins of corned-beef and bottles of Volvic; a change from their usual staple of car-radios and Special Brew, secondly some non-irradiated meat is bound to come in handy once the beans have run out.


Event Two:
A pigeon, utilising its amazing whippet-tracking ability to fly back to its flat-capped owner in Gateshead flapped over Yorkshire on a marathon journey from North Africa. Incredibly, the thoroughbred pigeon, known as Rata-Voladora VI was to have broken all previous records ever held by a pigeon ever, but for a simple twist of fate, or more precisely a twitch of bowel. A large blob of white, runny stool falls from the rear quarters of the bird just as it gains height above RAF Fylingdales Early Warning Radar Station.

***TELEX TO USAF MENWITH HILL***

01:33 TEST SWEEP. 99.31% NORMAL.
01:39 TEST SWEEP. 99.87% NORMAL.
01:44 CONTACT. SMALL TARGET AT MACH 2.0. LOCATION:N/FRANCE. TRACKING 001.
01:45 CONTACT. TRACKING TARGET 001. TRAJECTORY INTERPOLATION...
01:45 CONTACT. SMALL TARGET AT MACH 1.7. LOCATION:N/FRANCE. TRACKING 002.
01:46 CONTACT. TRACKING TARGET 001, 002. TRAJECTORY INTERPOLATION...
01:47 CONTACT. TARGET 001 DESTINATION INTERPOLATED:NE/USA
01:47 CONTACT. TARGET 002 DESTINATION INTERPOLATED:E/CANADA
01:47 CONTACT. MEDIUM TARGET AT MACH 1.1. LOCATION N/FRANCE. TRACKING 003.
01:47 CONTACT. SMALL TARGET AT MACH 3.2. LOCATION NW/FRANCE. TRACKING 004.
01:47 CONTACT. MEDIUM TARGET AT MACH 0.0. LOCATION NW/FRANCE. TRACKING 005.
01:47 CONTACT. SMALL TARGET AT MACH 2.5. LOCATION N/FRANCE. TRACKING 006.
01:48 CONTACT. TRACKING TARGET 001, 002, 003, 004, 005, 006. TRAJECTORY INTERPOLATION...
01:49 CONTACT. TARGET 003 DESTINATION INTERPOLATED:NE/USA
01:49 CONTACT. INTERRUPT...
01:49 TRANSFER...
01:50 CONNECTING...HTTP://MILITARY.GAYMOVIECLUB.COM/

TARGET TRACKING RELAYED.

IMMEDIATE RESPONSE REQUIRED.

***END TELEX FROM RAF FYLINGDALES***


The splattering excrement causes dozens of erroneous targets to be identified by the Radar Early Warning Station with the unfortunate consequences that follow set in motion by a memo e-mailed to the Pentagon by an irate General.

Dick Schitt: "Brigadier General"
It has come to my attention that a large collection of phallus shaped objects are on they way to us from France. I can conclude of only two possible reasons for this. One, a salvo of French, nuclear-tipped ICBMs are inbound and we must respond with utmost vigour. Two, and far more likely a reason, parts of France are illegally migrating to US soil to revel in Freedom. The only solution open to us is the eradication of America, ensuring that the French will never feel freedom in their lifetime.

P.S. Can something be done about these memos I keep receiving regarding Viagra and penis enlargement?


Brigadier Schitt has placed in motion the wheels that will roll over all of our collective heads; repeatedly. A horrible error will see this memo reaching the President of the United States himself, forcing action.

In their shelters, made by laying floorboards up against a sturdy wall and piling earth over it, or digging a trench and pulling planks across it, the people of mainland Britain will sit in wait; hunched over in the dark like a self-fondler. They will be waiting for one of numerous signals that indicate the situation. The air-attack warning, coming in the form of a siren will be the first, and likely penultimate warning that the people will receive about the status of incoming missiles, the ultimate warning being a painful bulge-inducing death following close on their heels. They can wait for an all-clear if they survive, but the likelihood that the all-clear operator survived the initial blast and fires also is small.

At important times, such as the invasion of Europe, the invasion of Iraq, the invasion of bad, vampire-based television of British airwaves, America takes control of things. The president of the United States of America has a small button, situated alongside the large red 'doomsday' button. Once pressed, this button sends a signal to the British Prime Minister, deactivating him or her and transferring all decision making processes to Washington. Naturally, with America and France at such a deadlock the button would have been pressed many days prior to the populace of the surrounding countries, and those involved preparing bomb-shelters. With the nuclear arsenal of two countries the President of America would be capable of wiping the Western hemisphere off the planet.


Event Three:
The President's office has got word of the pre-emptive strike launched in their direction, and his immediate instructions are given to retalliate in the severest manner possible. The 'doomsday' button is pressed, but the President finds out that this one was just for show and in actuality he has to relay instructions to several people to instigate the nuclear strike against his sworn enemy.

Coalin Pol: "Receptionist of State"
Orders received as of 01:58 authourises full nuclear strike against France.
Launch Code Envelope Codes for opening the envelope containing the launch codes:
Secret Antarctica silos: j35u51t5c0ld
Submarine taskforce: i5m3110f5h1t
East coast silos: g08813myn08
West coast silos: 5n1ff50m37wa7
Central silos: p0rn15gr3a7
UK silos: t3a5w1ll1n9w4nk3r5
Thunderbirds are GO, and God bless America!


The missiles streak from their silos, slipping their sheaths like adept youths in order to feel the natural elements caress their phallic stem. The air-raid warnings sound their monotonous drone, resembling the death rattles of Bob Monkhouse. The people of America brace themselves and France recieves first word that a massive array of nuclear weapons was now streaking towards them; dangerous javelins of torment already breaking through the ionosphere at 18,000 miles an hour. An immediate response is made and a statement is made concurrently over the wire services.

Fran├žais Ivrogne: "Ministry of War and Surrender"
In reply to the actions, which like their cows, are mad, the Americans have forced us to unleash our terrible might upon them and their allies. We didn't do all of those tests in the Pacific for nothing you know, it wasn't just to get the surf-up or do dynamite fishing on a grand scale, although they were happy by-products, I grant you. All in all you had ample warning and to be perfectly honest you brought it on yourselves. In fifteen minutes time our voice shall be heard by all of the mad Americans and retentive British, wiping the oppressive scourge from history. We haven't forgotten about that base you thought was secret in Antarctica either, that's on our shit-list too.


The total destructive power now flying across the Atlantic amounts to five hundred thousand megatonnes both ways, the combined explosive power of all the publicly owned firearms in the US if they were all fired at once; only a little bit more, but not as much as you're probably thinking. Beyond the peak of their trajectories the missiles are guided, with the aid of gravity to their required targets, most of them silos that are now empty of their missiles. Britain has enough time to respond with the following proclamation.

Belle Ende: "MP for Crotch-Upon-Mount and Minister for the Armed Forces"
We are in no position to condemn the actions of our close friends across the water, but we are going to anyway. None of this is our fault. We didn't invent BSE, it just liked our cows a lot, and who can blame it, finest beef outside of a Fray Bentos pie. We don't want to be involved with this any more, is it too late to pull out; as the Catholic said to her husband? I know we should have said something sooner, but...


The first missiles airburst miles above the target countries sending powerful electromagnetic pulses across the landscape instantly rendering useless all unprotected electronics. The air-raid siren falls quiet, and the rest of the weapons continue to fall towards the cities and installations programmed into their guidance computers. There is nothing to stop them.

When the weapons detonate there will be a flash brighter than a thousand suns, blinding and burning all in its path, like being stabbed in the eye with a flaming pencil. The next thing that would be noticed by those that aren't blinded is the enormous blast-wave and ensuing fireball, a frenzied and broiling ball of seething and glowing tendrils that would rip buildings, people and rubbish shelters made with a few doors and some soil to shreds in fractions of a second.

From space the Western hemisphere of the Earth would ripple with flashes, fireballs and mushroom clouds in a dazzling lightshow on a par with Jean Michelle Jarre's work. Sadly Jean Michelle Jarre would undubtedly be annihilated along with the majority of the rest of the French population, swept up in the furious blasts and finely spread around in the three hundred mile an hour winds. The destruction would be near total, half the World's MacDonalds restaurants eradicated in one night, over four hundred million dead, Yorkshire in orbit as a second moon due to high-yeild detonations near natural geological fault lines catapulting the unfortunate county beyond the atmosphere.

America would fare the worst, the might of the French attack likely to force three quarters of the country underwater. The remaining islands that was once the World's number one super-power would be nothing more than charred stumps devoid of life or vitality, a place not dissimilar to the trousers of a pensioner. The vapourised fat cells collectively burned in the blasts will create a thick blanket of shroud-like smoke over the pocked islands, blocking out the sun for a minimum of seven years four months and a day, or two days if it's a leap year. It will be the worst ecological disaster in American history since the introduction of the motor car in 1979.

Fallout, mutations, baldness, death, disease and radioactive super-heroes will be the only future for our bleak globe, but if you're one of the lucky ones you will be killed in the initial blasts, it really isn't worth making much of an effort beyond that.

For more information on this subject you may be tempted by this link, giving need to know information to all those who want to be fully prepared.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004
 
Thirteen Red, Rouge Treize.

I was driving through Europe a few years ago, doing the whole tourist thing, driving around the capitals, out to the beaches, all the usual stuff. It was my last leg on the way home, and, as usually happens with this kind of holiday I started running low on currency; seriously low. I had a number of options open to me. I could sell an organ on the black-market, maybe a kidney or a lung, or both; but then how could I be sure than the regional peasants would even know my arse from my elbow? Selling oneself as a rent-boy seemed to be popular, every street corner seeming to attract a fresh gaggle of mincing meat waiting for a ravenous punter looking for a roasting; but then with all the competition I wouldn't have fancied my chances for it to have been lucrative in any way, my rentable days had long passed with my eighteenth birthday. I could always have tried mugging again, hunting down a vulnerable victim in a side alley, of which there were plenty to choose from, then relieving them of their hard-earned money; but what happened last time I had tried that really put me off, and my right testicle was still slightly swollen.

The only thing I had going for me was my Mercedes, a wonderful car to drive and cheap if purchased within Germany, their work-camps are most efficient. It had a full tank of petrol and a six-pack of Austrian bier on the passenger seat, possibly the least smelliest bar in the city, and mobile too. A quick visit to a drive-through McDonalds provided me a Royale with cheese and a tub of ice with a small sample of Diet Coke squeezed into the gaps between the cubes. The sun had gone down faster than Elton John on a choreographer and I tried to think of what else I could do to get a few more francs for the final part of my journey whilst sitting in the car-park of the fast-food restaurant, eating my burger with relish. I crunched down a few prescription drugs that needed to be taken with food and washed them down with the first few bottles of Austrian bier, that was bound to get me thinking much more clearly. Flogging my sperm after flogging my own manhood had got me out of sticky situations before when I was short of money, but in a strange city in a foreign country at night, I had little chance of finding anywhere to accept my deposit; in exchange for money anyway. There was only one thing for it, I had to do a bit of illegal mini-cabbing.

Reversing out of the compact car-park I felt a light, scraping impact and cursed myself for marking the flawless paintwork against a crappy little Italian vehicle, flecks of its white paint now decorating the graze on the back of the car. Nobody had seen me do it, so I drove away, hastily draining another of the bier bottles and tossing it out of the tinted window, sending shards of glass skipping across the road, glittering like a thousand candles in the wind. I cruised around the streets, but they seemed strangely quiet for a weekend, and the only people who looked like they wanted a lift turned out to be rent-boys with breath smelling strongly of garlic and semen, a repellent combination I can assure you. The only way I was going to make any money was to find somewhere that has people going in and out all the time, a hotel, a restaurant or a brothel, say. I snaked my Merc through some tight back-alleys towards the centre of the city, closer to the human activity. I eventually found myself at the back of a large, fancy looking building that might have been a hotel and I decided that it was as good a place as any to finish my Austrian bier, so I did.

I'd finished off the final bottle and was just beginning to enjoy the buzzing feeling that the combination of prescription drugs and alcohol were having when the car lurched violently as one of the back doors was tugged open and a giggling couple jumped into the car. A fare, excellent, and I didn't even have to tout myself.
"Take us to the Hotel Regina, quickly." The blonde woman said poshly, then returned her attention to her tanned companion. I wasn't sure exactly where the Hotel Regina was, but I was sure it would be along the river somewhere, so I lit up a cigarette, started the engine and pulled away, enjoying the buzz.

The cityscape swept past the window as I directed the vehicle down the swaying road, every now and then, more than often, in fact quite a lot of the time I drove was spent glancing in the rear-view mirror at my friendly passengers. The blonde woman was nothing short of a slut, and in no time at all her head was bobbing up and down in the man's lap, but the look on his face was enough to tell me all I needed to know to work out what was going on. A mouthful of protein later and her face was back in view, her doe eyes rolling about in their sockets like she was in a Martin Bashir interview.
"Faster!" She cried, a streak of spittle, at least I think it was spittle, escaping from the side of her mouth. I complied, edging the speed up a notch on the wet tarmac, hastening the passing of the regal buildings either side. We were coming up to the river and I turned on to the road that runs alongside the Seine. In the rear-view mirror I could no longer see the dark, handsome man, but he must have been there judging by the way she was spasming slightly, and the smell of herring that began to pervade the car.
"Faster. Oh, go faster!" The woman pleaded, so I did. I put my foot to the floor and the German engineering responded superbly, the speedometer creeping up to seventy miles per hour along the road that was swaying worse than ever.

"That's it, a little to the left" The blonde said, squirming on the seat that must have been getting the point where even dry-cleaning couldn't save it. I was quite far over to the left of the road but I inched a little closer to the edge for my fare. The pair of them looked rich, and if this gets me a bigger payoff at the end then it's fine with me; I'd drive on the wrong side of the road for enough money.
"Faster, please." The woman cried, and I inched the car up to eighty, the black river zipping by at quite a rate now. We were approaching a tunnel, where I assumed that a road must pass over the top of the one I was currently on, and I wasn't too far to the left on entry, much like the man who was 'riding' in the back of the car.
"Oh yes, I want to wrap myself around that big column baby." The woman shrieked, and the order made me comply automatically.

I don't remember a lot beyond that, not until I woke up a little dazed in the gardens at Versailles. I had soiled myself and my testicles seemed overly swollen again, but apart from that I was fine. I never did find out what happened to the blonde woman and her friend but they must have been pleased, I found a lot of the woman's jewellery in my trouser pocket, only slightly tarnished with excrement and a little blood; obviously payment. I pawned all that I could for a reasonable sum, enough to cover my lost vehicle and passage home with a little left over for a souvenir. Another six-pack of Austrian bier seemed like the only thing, and as I washed my medication down with the amber liquid I couldn't help but fondly reminisce about my time in France.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
 
It's all ME ME ME.


The following is an extract from "The Medical Sceptic", Sept 2003 issue. The author, Doctor Raymond Pizt was shot in the face with a flaregun recently for his outspoken views in the world of medical science. His condition is touch and go and he may not live to the end of this article.


We all get tired, of course we do, we're only human. Fatigue kicks in when we have put our bodies through such strenuous activities such as running, sex, or even having a drunken fight in a pub toilet. In fact it is almost any activity done to excess that will bring on tiredness, even being awake too long makes one tired, but we rarely complain. To remedy this we eat and sleep, refuelling and refreshing our bodies as best as we can, but it is perfectly natural, if you have done slightly more the day before, for it to be harder to get up the next day, or course it will be. Experiencing this sort of thing is normal and certainly no reason to run to a doctor, but does that stop people? Does it bollocks. Instead the doctor is badgered constantly by people who are supposed to be perpetually tired, likely due to excess badgery and not enough sleep rather than any actual ailment. Of course doctors are fallible, just look at the recent MMR hysterics all caused by the misguided actions of one deformed man who has a third nipple forming on his cheek, and doctors sometimes just get sucked in by the convincing nature of their persistent patients, possibly even sucked off to finally convince their tiny medical heads. The upshot of it all has been the invention of M.E., a label that all the truly lazy can happily claim without having to make too much effort.

This hasn't been the first time medical science has been pressured into creating illnesses that don't even exist just to appease the patients, or simply because it has been fooled into believing wild claims made by raving lunatics. Medicine has some obvious axioms, one of which is quoted here:

Axiom 355: A healthy person, as described in Axioms 10; 13-21; 69 and 354, will have no reason to suddenly drop dead, defined in Axioms 99; 101; 300 and upcoming Axiom 356, unless some external impulse or person acts in such a way as to snuff the life of the aforementioned healthy person, this we hold self-evident. If anyone is to say otherwise then they are wrong, as wrong as the doubters of Axioms 1-5; 212; 244; 298 and 333, this we also hold self-evident, now we'll hear no more about it.

The majority of doctors from the age of Aristotle, Plato and Raj Persaud have followed these axioms without question, but that was before a single mad pillow-wielder made the claim that was to bring about the downfall of Axiom 355. Having a baby is an emotional business, as is raising a child to the age of responsibility (something Christine and Mervyn Wright have not achieved with their son Tommy yet), it would be perfectly reasonable to expect some form of post-natal depression, but is this excuse enough to brush a hasty murder under the carpet as cot-death? It would appear that many doctors would think it is, and considering how self-evident the Axioms are they surely can't believe that unruly children will suddenly drop dead even though they haven't spent more than two hours in a row sleeping in their entire lives. A frought mother can be excused for such a rash act it would appear, but heaven forbid a dingo runs off with your baby.


Doctor Raymond Pizt died a few moments ago.

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