What’s wrong with people these days, eh? Pfft.
I don’t mean you, obviously. As a visitor and possible subscriber to this blog, you have elevated yourself into spheres quite unheard of by mere ‘people’. You, my dear, dear squidlet, who are more God than person, are exempt from such tawdry classifications. I mean everyone else.
Like that chap over there. Yes, you.
Why do you insist on marching along at twenty miles an hour, head down, brain sucked through the screen of your blackcurrant into the sanity vortex generated by a billion pointless emails, expecting me to not walk into you when I’m doing exactly the same thing in the opposite direction. Seriously. Watch where I’m going.
While I’m on the subject, I don’t know very much about cars. I know I wasn’t on the subject, but that’s only because I cut and pasted a paragraph about cars from above this one to down there somewhere, because it seemed to need a shady corner. Anyway, while I’m on the subject of cars… Being Man, I know that I ought to be turgidly aquiver in the presence of a roaring tin can full of horsepowers and valves and shit. I’m not though. Cars are divided into two categories: the one with which I’m trying not to murder anyone and all the others that have no interest in returning the favour. Bastards. Not you, obviously.
Sometimes I might notice one if it’s covered entirely in grass or being driven by an ostrich or something.
My idea of driving involves stomping on the pedals, twiddling the wheel and furiously waggling the gear-cruncher so as to arrive as near as reasonably practicable to point B with minimal fatalities. I may not be among the best ninty eight per cent of drivers, but I can steer with my knees for long enough to eat two happy meals and a mango.
Dear The Law
I think it’s lovely that you’ve made up all those rules about not bludgeoning each other to death unless we’re absolutely sure no one’s looking, not taping songs off the radio and making sure we pay all the taxes unless we’re really, really rich. So, thanks for that.
Now you’ve sorted out the basics, I reckon it’s time for a look at the important stuff.
Like, these people who write blogs about blogging. They seem harmless, but it’s only a matter of time before they refer back to their post about writing a blog about blogging, therefore blogging about blogging about blogging about blogging. All physicists everywhere agree that the resulting wormhole will cause an influx of militant space gerbils to annihilate humanity. Is that what you want? Didn’t think so.
Also, I suspect many of these meta-bloggers actually are militant space gerbils. It’s obvious when you think about it – all those typo’s are inevitable when you have to run up and down the keyboard with a miniscule grenade launcher strapped to your back. Try it – you’ll see I’m right.
Also, fax machines.
Dear Online Medical Community
I’ve reviewed all of your contributions to the internets and have diagnosed myself with everything. I’ll have to type quickly because I expect the leprosy to spread to my fingers any minute. Please do try to keep up.
After reading medical websites for eighteen hours straight, I realised that my vision was starting to distort. The most plausible explanation is that spider eggs were hatching somewhere in my visual cortex and eating my brain. I’ve started drilling holes in my head and gluing flies round the edges to tempt the spiders out. After I’ve finished, should I use some sort of filler to block the holes or can I just use them for keeping marbles in?
Am I supposed to be able to touch my right ear with my left elbow? I can’t. Can you? Am I eligible for financial support to pay someone else to touch my right ear with their left elbow?
Also, does Ebola taste like watermelon? My mouth started to taste like watermelon and I got so worried it was Ebola that I almost couldn’t finish eating my watermelon.
Please respond by phone because I think my eyeballs will probably have dropped out by the time you get back to me. If I don’t answer, it’ll be because my ears have exploded.
IMPORTANT SCIENCE NEWS
Recent neuropathological studies into the misuse of apostrophes have overturned the old classroom adage: ‘if in doubt – leave them out’.
A new study by Venkman and Spengler has proven that all those orphaned apostrophes collect in an area of the brain known as ‘The Area of Jones’.
When Jones Area (shit) reaches capacity; it invariably ruptures, releasing thousands of furious apostrophes into the brain, where they pair up to become inverted commas, leaving the victim unsure of what’s “real” and what “isn’t”.
If in doubt…
they’ll eat your brain.
.Next: What happens if you forget to use your colon.
Look into the nearest shiny surface. It might be the moist eyeball of a passing bison, but it’s probably not. Anyway, look closely, what do you see? If, like me, you see an enthusiastic and elegantly bearded connoisseur of contemporary breakfast cuisine, you may stop reading and go and play outside. The rest of you – pay attention – hands on laps, stop talking and spit out that gum – this will change your life.
Step one sees you instructing your valet to retrieve the muffins from the pantry. For the less immediately English among us, I am not referring to those sweet, lumpy things that wear paper underpants and contain blueberries, chocolate chips or some other frightful gimmick. No. You must leave your man in no doubt that he must bring you the savoury toasting muffins if he wants to retain his position in your household. Should he return, wearing the sheepish expression of a gentleman’s gentleman with nuffin where a muffin ought to be, you will be forced to visit a local carbmonger and engage in a monetary-muffinary transaction. In either case, liberate the muffins immediately from the cellophane profanity in which they will have been encased and take a moment to observe them in all their naked glory. Take a deep breath and proceed to step two.
Discover a sausage. Observe its shape. It is the wrong shape. Employing a pair of scissors, a screwdriver or possibly the pointed handle of an unnecessarily elaborate teaspoon, lacerate the sausage repeatedly until its insides are outside its outside. Dispose of the outside with a jaunty flourish and a knowing chuckle. Not for you, the skin of the sausage. You are above such things. Repeat with two further sausages and an escalating sense of self-worth. Combine the erstwhile insides into a unified globule. Compress said globule into the approximate shape of a healthy erythrocyte, the lens of your own left eyeball or, for the sporting among you, a hocky puck.
Gallus gallus domesticus, the domesticated subspecies of the Red Junglefowl, can be Kentucky Fried and procured in family sized buckets. On this occasion however, you need only acquire a favourable example of its unfertilised ovum which you will crack into a frying pan and coagulate sunny side up. Once it has attained a slightly rubbery consistency, you must return your attention immediately to your muffin. I trust that, as a reader of this blog, you will have a samurai sword to hand. If not, a knife will provide the means if not necessarily the style required to divorce the top half of your muffin from the bottom half, which will be known hereafter as part W, for no reason whatsoever. Having done this, arrange the sausage between the egg and part W. You should now be left with only the top of the muffin to deal with. If you don’t know what to do with that, you have my pity.
You now have in your possession a traditional sausage and egg muffin. A dash of Guinness added to the sausage mixture provides a whimsical, Irish variation known as the Sausage and Egg O’Muffin. Certain Scottish sandwich vendors may also offer a similar breakfasting solution, but that is not our concern.
As a kid, I always envied children who were raised by wolves. Having been raised by domestic dogs myself, they always seemed so cool and dangerous by comparison. Years later, I’ve learnt to appreciate the valuable life lessons that only an enthusiastic canine can bestow. For those of you with exclusively bipedal heritage, here are some rules to live by:
The only thing worse than having your ears turned inside out is having nobody around to turn your ears inside out.
It’s difficult, but not impossible to run and crap at the same time. The real trick is in pulling your trousers back up without slowing down.
When being taken for a medical appointment, always ask why. Do an inventory beforehand and get written assurance that it’ll all still be there on the way back.
In this communication age, the urban landscape offers literally thousands of places to leave your mark. The most popular canine networking application, iPeed, is now available to all breeds. Please feel free to leave a friend request on the lamppost in front of my house.
We’re all terribly impressed by the giraffes and narwhals and chihuahuas and whatnot, but don’t you think it’s time for something new?
I know that evolution is your preferred approach, but it’s not very efficient, is it? With modern business techniques at our disposal, I think we can do better than a hundred million years to develop a gibbon. Here are some ideas. Prototypes by Tuesday? Lovely.
Miniscule hummingbirds that eat earwax and live on underground trains. The frequency of their tiny wings should be directly opposed to whatever noise is leaking from the headphones of the person sitting next to you, thereby cancelling it out and allowing you to enjoy your ear-cleansing in peace.
Chocolate emus that lay huge, hollow eggs containing baby rabbits who burst out of them singing showtunes and tapdancing. If you don’t understand why this is a vital addition to the natural world, you’re in the wrong place.
On a more practical note, I want to be able to store information using herds of databeasts. I want to see great plains full of databeasts, each representing a single datum. They’d look like buffalo (except hairier and more purple) until you got up really close, when they’d stop chewing their partially digested grass, look you squarely in the eye and say ‘eleven point four three or whatever their particular datum might be, ideally in the voice of Frankie Howerd. Database managers would need helicopters and cattle prods to do their jobs. The world would be better.
Also, I see where you’re going with the whole ‘humanity’ idea. It looks good but it would be nice if you could just hurry up and finish it.