Mouthwash, Garbage and Shortcake

Contrary to popular belief, the grizzly bear is, in fact, directly related to the coi carp, or big goldfish, as it is more widely known. The picture shows two of my favourite examples.

They’re the bestest friends I’ve ever had and a frequent uncle once told me that once you’ve introduced yourself they become a friend for life. In fact, annoyingly so.

The other day, I was out walking Bert, my 6 year old wardrobe. She’s quite arthritic and doesn’t need to be hassled by pesky bears who can’t find anything better to do than go furniture-bothering.

A Tale with No End

Eponymous Virtue, a staunch supporter of the 'truckers right to sleep whilst driving' campaign and monk (grade 3) of the virtual order of st tiffany the acrimonious, was aware that he was being followed. A steady pitter-patter interspersed with splishy-sploshies accompanied by growls, thumps and belches, dogged his moccasined footsteps through the alleyway leading to the multiplex cinema complex at the north end of the quiet village of Tiffin.

Sadly, that's where the story ended.

That Mad Woman of Shallot

. . . she knows 'er onions'

Snorbett Dangernose was feeling a little uncomfortable. If it hadn't been for the janitor's insistence that Ethylene Wudbaskit could, in no way, have the knowledge of spurning (as it is oft known, by jingo), he would, most likely, not have dared to enter The Dragon, that denizen of misbegotten who-j'miflips, but a good place to get a pint of Ol' Ferdy after hours. Certainly not from that direction.

On passing through that threshold, at first, all seemed quite normal. It wasn't though, as you might have guessed.

There's No End to This Madness

There was a fiendish gleam in his eye.

Unfortunately, His Greatness, the Lord Aka Kaka had left his eye on the greying worm-eaten worktop of his kitchenette/diner so he didn't look entirely convincing as the evil overlord of the Plains of Snrrt constituency. In essence, he appeared no more threatening than a fluffy hamster child at his coming-out lunch. He knew he wouldn't be able to pull this off without a little cunning. Convincing the war-weary Plains-dwellers to purchase a metric tonne per household of tinned asparagus when most did not have two pennies to rub together. And that would be the easy part. How on earth (or runk, as it was known, locally) could he coerce them into taking trumpet lessons.

It had started with a simple clerical error. The temporary temp at Halfway House, headquarters of Golden Fraction Inc, Germaine Cabbidge, had not been told about the janitor's habit of recycling files that were still open. Or eating them. Under normal circumstances, Scud Missyle, that rocking rocker sort of really rocky bloke who does the filing in a really rocky sort of way, with smegabytes of what children nowadays tend to think of as music blasting from his iSod into that inert mass of stiff porridge between his ears.

I didn't finish that sentence, did I?

never mind

Abandon Ship

Scurrying for the lifeboats, lifebelt fashionably safety-pinned to my string vest, gasping for every last breath as I struggle to manage the 40kg of Bogey (the dog), I stop briefly and turn to take one last look at the contaminated shell of the once magnificent HMS Muntry Sieving.

Hello, I'm Poo, erstwhile hubby of the magnificent Lixtroll, humbly joining the ranks of the great and the good and begging your indulgence. I must join in and say 'HURRAH' and 'CHEERS' and 'POWER TO THE PEOPLE' and many jolly things of that nature, at this hour of our independence, this day on which we shrug of the shackles of mediocrity and march into glory.

hip hip HOORAY!