A trip down to the shops.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
I don't believe it!
A question has been hovering around my mind of late, specifically; should the elderly be summarily killed? An incident that happened this very afternoon have firmly confirmed to me that yes, they should, and without remorse. This might seem a little harsh, and before today I might have agreed had you caught me in a good mood, but certainly never again, and let it be the elderly of Cambridgeshire who will pioneer this cleansing. I'm not being randomly unkind here, there is method, and a by-product of this final solution to the excess geriatric mountain building its wrinkly slopes in Europe can only be a sky-rocketing economy, a happier population and plenty of glue for everyone.
It all began a few weeks ago, when Briar, the fellow contributor to this online tome suggested a trip to London to see some filming of the BBC television production Little Britain. It sounded like a great plan to me, so I agreed, not even given the slightest hint that this would result in a view-changing experience that requires the decimation of an entire world population. The wheels were in motion though, and nothing could stop the inevitable events that led to my epiphany.
Getting down to Cambridgeshire from York was the easy bit, but finding the exact location of my rendezvous was to be a little harder. I'm happy to admit at being terrible at following directions, but I do have to point out at this point that the instructions could have been a little clearer. Needless to say I ended up getting lost, and after realising at last that I actually must be lost I did most of what the Highway Code asks of me and parked safely, ensuring that the impediment to both pedestrians and vehicles alike was minimised. This seemed to satisfy most people, the bus full of school-children disembarking ahead of me on the opposite side of the road, the nosey neighbour with the bad perm who pretended to be busy whilst standing at the end of her drive, in fact everyone. Well, everyone except for the old man with the blue plastic bag.
He seemed innocuous from a distance, just the usual type of bumpkin I would expect to see in the Fens. His wax-jacket was worn, as if excessively scratched by sexual congress with pigs. His plastic bag bulged, containing some unknown and vile mystery, possibly the head of an ex-wife, or maybe his mother's. As he got closer I couldn't help but pay absolutely no heed to his thunderous mood and leathery, blood-vessel streaked face fixed in a misery-fuelled grimace as I was busy sending a text message, one arm nonchalantly resting on the edge of my open window, a good look, but one I would certainly regret.
Before I knew what was happening he was upon me, leering in through my open window like a chimpanzee staring out at the visitors that get to go home at the end of their day out at the zoo. He was gibbering, spitting out words at me, the stranger in his bog. I finally understood what he was saying before the third repetition of his gripe, the stench of his breath capable of melting teeth and a distinct smell of dried urine had begun to assail my nose. It transpires that my indiscretion was nothing more than parking with two wheels of my car on the kerb. I didn't point out that he was a pedestrian haranguing me about the pavement being no place for a car whilst he was standing in the middle of the road, I merely prayed for another reckless driver, but alas it was not to be.
I asked him if he would prefer I obstructed the road causing a car to drive into one of the alighting school-children. Something about him reminded me of a child murderer, and as he didn't try to deny my accusation we can all be sure that I was right, and in future consider him such. This foul defiler of children was next to do something that I considered the only sensible thing that likely crossed his mind that day, he decided to leave. In an encouraging tone I politely suggested that, yes; he should "fuck off".
Oh dear. It would appear that in the Fens the phrase "fuck off" means "please come and annoy me further"; how was I to know? He did, only this time grabbing the edge of my door and spitting more fervently than before. It was about this time I began considering other things the bag may contain, a knife, a gun; some of the stuff that makes his breath smell so terribly bad? He'd had his child-murdering chance, and I wasn't prepared to let him take it, and my life along with it. Pushing his revolting arms from my door I began to raise my window, a transparent blockage that would at least protect me from the stench. He lunged, as if to strike me like he had struck children so many times before, but his punch, like his appearance had a lot to be desired.
I had been rational. I hadn't beaten him to death as he so richly deserved. I wanted to, but now it was time to resort to the big guns, and out they came. "Fuck off you cunt" seemed like the only appropriate response to feigned violence. It did the job and off he loped, striking the side of my vehicle as he left; I assume to confirm my last assertion.
I was left shocked and appalled that the old and useless could behave in such a degrading manner, encouraging violence like Adolf Hitler sixty five years ago. Looking in my rear-view mirror I could see the wrinkled offender was taking a great perverse pleasure in describing our vulgar altercation to every single person living along the road, no doubt making his day richer and fuller than any that had preceded it.
So there it is, the incident in all its foul glory. I'm sure now that you will see the sense of my genocide and why it must be. As well as phasing out such incidents as I have explained here it will, in one swoop completely solve the problem of pension shortfalls. The fewer elderly and ugly people we see then the happier we become, this has been verified by several independent sources as fact. On top of all of these positive outcomes the enormous stockpile of bodies will provide glue, and ironically soap, something that is rarely used by the elderly.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
The eleventh of September, 2001 was a fairly bad day for some people, especially those who worked in the financial district of New York. We all know the official explanation of what happened that day, and a lot of us have heard the amazing conspiracy theories, like those claiming that Jed Bush was flying the plane that hit The Pentagon, that it was all a big David Blaine trick gone awry, that it never really happened. With the facts I am about to present to you, you will soon see that all you have heard previously has been nothing more substantial than the chokings of a drugged nun. I present to you, The Truth About 'nineleven'.
The AFPMB is a little known organisation connected to a shady tentacle of the Department of Defence, a tentacle whose main activities involve eradicating those who are undesirable to the American Government. You will likely never have heard of them, but this is simply another feat of invisibility for a department that Congress would rather you never knew existed. Simply put, the Armed Forces Pest Management Board does some of the dirtiest jobs out there, but what is their connection to nineleven?
Some might think that it was coincidence that the World Trade Centre complex was infested beyond reason with pigeons, that there was not one air-duct that wasn't crawling with cockroaches and that the majority of the underground car parks were unusable thanks to giant ants from the Arizona Desert. There are those that may also shrug off the fact that four of the aeroplanes in American Airline's fleet of passenger vehicles were revealed to be carriers of plane-herpes, an incurable condition likely contracted from Easyjet flights in Belfast International Airport. But clearly only a fool would disregard all of the above and the fact that the Pentagon had recently had an escape of flying-monkeys, developed in Department of Defence laboratories for the protection of the President's daughters Western residences. Put all of this together and we can see that in every instance the AFPMB must have had their vile fingers firmly embedded in each respective pie.
AFPMB members, grouped in cells around the United States were encouraged to act before the infestations spread further, and an audaciously inventive solution was provided to all cells in the form of coded messages on the internet. Few of these still exist today in electric form, but there is one telling picture that does remain that reveals the AFPMB's aim. This is reproduced below, but can be found on the actual AFPMB's website HERE. When compared to what actually happened on nineleven we can see that it all went exactly as the AFPMB had planned; see below. Quite a chilling truth I'm sure you will agree.
There will still be naysayers, those who cling limply onto the floating log of coincidence, those who say that the US Government is incapable of killing so many innocents, those who think that leg-warmers look good. To those people I ask this, who here is really the madman? Me in my small rubber cell, or you, shrouded in a smock of blindness to the truth when put directly in front of you?