Party Poppers

Sick of reminiscing? Sick of prognosticating?

Of course. Of course.

But you can't be sick of laughing. No-one could be. Unless they were actually physically sick from laughing. Which can happen. Especially with my track record of vomitous hilarity.

There were too many full stops in that paragraph; I'll attempt to rectify that with }various other t/ypes of punctuation?

Yes. I will.

Let's drop the curtain on 2011 by covering the curtain in hilarious recent tweets and lowering it onto a clown or something.

That's right! It's time for another edition of:

Sieved Chucklemakers

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POEM: Beverley // drank heavily

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As a child, I revolutionised playground taunting. You might say I was an entrepreneur-neur ne-neur-neur.

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Silence is golden. As is crème brûlée. But you're only allowed one of them in the library.

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I haven't given out any Christmas cards this year, because all my friends are terrified of rosy cheeks (and card).

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My favourite worldwind instrument is the globoe.

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Whenever someone's in the toilet cubicle and I go to use the urinal, I signal my presence by shouting "You should be ashamed of yourself!"

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Let's call James Spader James Spader.

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I'm playing with a spinning top from a Christmas cracker, and will continue to do so until there's peace in the Middle East.

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You can please some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can't.

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Reality Show Pitch: THE LITTLEST RICHARD - Little Richard searches for the world's smallest person called Richard. Dicks don't count.

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Film Pitch: COE-PILOT - When a plane starts to crash, Sebastian Coe must come out of retirement and run one of the engines or something.

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Sitcom Pitch: RAISING THE STAKES - Anti-gravity vampire adoption drama.

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Cave paintings were found up until 20,000BC when prehistoric man finally perfected the cave and moved on to other subjects (fruit bowls etc)

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Lucy's job today has involved reading this quote: "…never go forward, never go forward, cries out the soul infected with Mad Crab Disease."

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Right. I'm going to knuckle down. And buckle down. And hunker down. And huckle down. I'm a PROFESSIONAL. It says so on my Post-it poncho.

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My Hugh Grant impression is far better than his impression of me.

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My family has agreed that we won't exchange presents this year; only caveats.

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Take a deep breath. Bury it in your back garden. Then, when all oxygen is depleted, dig it up. Learn from the squirrels.

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I just found out that someone I know just found out that someone they know just found out about it.

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I'm afraid of deer. But it doesn't come up often enough for it to be much of an issue.

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Anyone who drives an expensive sports car only does it because they have a TINY child who loves sports cars.

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"I dunno. It's just all of a sudden, everything started clicking into place..." - The World Precision Clicking Champion.

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Never pour salt on a person's wounds. Unless it's Lot's wife, in which case it won't make much difference.

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I was brought up to have respect for the police. Though that might have just been a way for my dad to justify his truncheon collection.

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POEM: Julius Tafel // won falafel // in a raffle

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I was reading an interesting book about bookmarks, but lost my place.

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The sun sinks below the horizon are the best place to wash your suns.

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I like to sneak into the New Look dressing rooms and shout "YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET THAT!" to shoppers and myself at regular intervals.

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"Excuse me, are you Desperate Measures?" "Yes." "There's someone on the phone for you. Something Times, I think."

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I've spent all afternoon curling ribbon and now my typewriter is fucked.

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The Final Score vidiprinter was designed by Anthony Burgess.

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BRAY KING NEWS: The coronation of The World's Loudest Donkey has just taken place in Madrid.

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Watching A Christmas Carol. I'm definitely #teamjacobmarley

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There's only one thing I hate more than pointless secrecy.

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I know the eyes in the back of my head like the back of my hand.

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Rumours of cheating at the World Backwards Ejaculation Championships have been corroborated after one of the competitors came forward.

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I always carry a tiny gas leak around wherever I go, to give me advanced warning of canaries.

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My new shower gel has made my skin so soft, I keep slipping off the furniture. I've had to sit in a bucket of sand.

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I should probably have taken the spade out, but there just wasn't time. If you want traction, you must take action.

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I'm worried my hands might be ageing faster than the cryogenic glove salesman said they would.

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I'm going to breathe in some of the night sky. Don't worry, there will still be plenty left over.

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Got a bit carried away and nearly choked on a moonbeam. An owl saw me and rolled his eyes 360°. Nocturnality is tough.

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I like to get a single bran flake and pretend it's a tiny, drab pappadam. I then discard it, along with my thimble full of chutney.

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Drizzle always makes me think of a damp Snoop Dogg.

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Sean Connery travels everywhere by limousine, so that if he needs to stay the night somewhere, he can sleep on the chauffeur-bed.

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It's not nice out there. I saw a man dressed as Santa trying to drown himself in a puddle. I helped. It was the least I could do.

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When the word 'obsolete' becomes obsolete, how will we know?

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My invisible little clown pixie-friend says I need to start taking myself more seriously.

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POEM: I am // the man of a thousand faces // or so Faye says...

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When writing a play, you should always make sure the stage directions state VERY CLEARLY if a character is entering a competition.

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Things aren't looking good for my barbecue this afternoon, due to my lack of a garden, a barbecue or any desire to host a barbecue.

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I've wasted thousands of pounds on sausages and parasols.

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"Every time I see a sponge, I shout "SPONGE!" as loud as I can." - Me, in the following tweet.

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Every time I see a sponge, I shout "SPONGE!" as loud as I can.

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Sometimes I don't realise I'm thirsty until someone mistakes me for potpourri.

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I've got a feed on my FB page which automatically updates whenever I complain about automatic FB feeds. To keep my friends in the loop.

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Imagine an aeroplane doing an impression of a human doing an impression of a terrible dancer. That's how I dance. That's why I dance.

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I've got more birthday cards on display than I have Christmas cards. That doesn't mean I think I'm more important than Jesus.

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I'm also sitting in a manger, drinking myrrh. But, again, this isn't any comment on the relative merits of myself and Christ.

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I always faint at the sight of six pints of my own blood.

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My friends and I fell about laughing until I had special harnesses fitted.

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I just trimmed my beard, and now I look much less wise. (I did it with an ice cream scoop)

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Film Pitch: FAR FROM THE TREE - Newton's son rejects the family physics business and become a software engineer. Themes = gravity, wigs.

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Sitcom Pitch: HEARTS AND MINDS - Mass-murderer Artie "Choke" Hearts must win the support of two brains in jars to get elected as an MP.

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Quiz Show Pitch: FORAGERS - 4 people in anger-management therapy are forced to find their own food in the woods; put the 'rage' in forage.

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You may have noticed - I never abandon a tweet halfway through, even if it's going nowhere. "Quality control" is another term for cowardice.

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When I was a Fleet Street vet, I had to put a lot of newspaper down.

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The Winter Solstice. Your night-vision goggles have never been more valuable.

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I've never felt batter!

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The top button of my shirt is always undone, because I want people to suspect I'm Banksy.

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I like defending my use of swear words by telling people they're in Shakespeare. Also: the murders.

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It's annoying when you wake up in the middle of a particularly interesting nightmare. That's why death will be so satisfying.

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I've left express instructions in my Will that my funeral will take place ONLY IF the hover-hearse has been invented.

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ECONOMICAL CHRISTMAS IDEA: Buy lots of half price out-of-season suntan lotion and repurpose it as runny snow.

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ECONOMICAL CHRISTMAS IDEA: Wrap your presents with other presents.

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ECONOMICAL CHRISTMAS IDEA: Offend an elderly relative, then use their shocked open jaw instead of a gravy boat.

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ECONOMICAL CHRISTMAS IDEA: When singing The Twelve Days of Christmas, omit the swans and the lords.

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I'm obsessed with making sure my headphones are in the correct ears (mine).

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I'm hearing unsubstantiated reports that the reports themselves may in fact be substantiated. More on this as it develops.

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All pillow fights are rigged.

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I've got a tuft of hair sticking up. Probably because of the position I slept in (near a tuft magnet).

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I love going to football matches and shouting "GREAT FIRST TOUCH!" at random intervals. You can also do this in a maternity ward.

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I'm so hungry I could eat a hearse! No, sorry.... not hungry. Grieving. That's it.

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It's easier to dress up as a cowboy if you have a head.

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I hope the "people" downstairs don't die before I get a chance to notify their parents via Skype.

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Oh, they're having a loud party by the way. I probably should've mentioned that. I don't hate people just for being closer to sea level.

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I'm tempted to put all of them through their own letterbox.

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They seem to have quietened down now. Touch wood. The jagged wood. The jagged bit of wood that I hope is severing their Achilles tendon(s).

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Torture fantasies are like a mug of warm milk. I'll sleep soundly tonight.

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I can't decide if I like "ab", "ov", "e", or all of the above.

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Hey, @FantaFun! A young child was drowned in a fizzy orange drink. It was inFantacide. You can have that one.

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Hey, @FantaFun! I've got loads more just like that! I'll give you the lot for $300. http://headscissors.blogspot.com/2009/12/fantamount.html

[Paul/Editors Note: Fanta did not reply :-( ]

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I'd like to be the face of Fanta. I have ethical qualms about The Coca-Cola Co, but I'd be happy to ignore them if they give me a costume.

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I remember the day my parents sat me down and told me that, from then on, I'd have to sit myself down. Heartbreaking.

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People forget that the so-called "Santa hat" was originally used as a butternut squash cosy.

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Now, where did I put that impetus...?

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I just walked into, and BROKE, a stranger's out tray. Can I go home now?

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Continuing Breaducation: for people who want to butter themselves.

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I regretted that last tweet before I'd even turned my computer on.

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Just call me Mr Car Window On A Hot Day, because I'm winding down.

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The main unit of applause is a "smattering".

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Yesterday, I was visited by The Ghost of Christmas Tomorrow. Pointless.

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Preheat your oven NOW if you're planning to cook your oven this Christmas.

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I just imagined what it would be like to spend Christmas in an American prison, and was overcome by a feeling of tremendous feloncholy.

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I just mentioned myself.

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Greenscreen technology could make golf courses a lot more interesting.

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I never wear pink in case I start bleeding and it clashes.

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Cats have paws. Pigs have trotters. Horses have hooves. But only HUMANS have panettone.

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I bought my nephew a Super Soaker for Christmas. Of course I didn't want him to get cold, so I filled it with brandy.

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I don't really have a nephew. It's fine. I've come to terms with it.

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I'm wearing a lilac shirt and baggy white linen trousers. I look like the louchest plantation owner in Toyland.

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I shouldn't have put so many novelty bongs on my Amazon wishlist.

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"A wolf in mutton-dressed-as-lamb's clothing." - Internet dating requires a delicate hand.

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Familiarity breeds contempt. But it's much more humane (and cheaper) to adopt some existing unwanted contempt from a shelter.

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I have to scratch myself an even number of times, or else this tweet would be meaningless.

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I don't think The Animals of Farthing Would.

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I use the euphemism "she's got a bun under the grill" for women who are mouth-pregnant.

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We walked round the museum for ages, and eventually decided to go inside.

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I've just eaten a burrito - a method recommended by the burrito salesman.

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I'd like to have a fire escape, just so I could test my flame-hunting skills.

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OH THANK GOD. I thought something terrible had happened.

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Sadly, I was born with my tear ducts in the wrong eyes.

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I'm going to drink a pint of Earth water.

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If you want to steal a Frenchman's ashes at a specific time: watch and l'urn.

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I'd only ever commit suicide in self-defence.

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Film Pitch: MILK AND TWO SUGARS- Gay rights activist Harvey Milk, entrepreneur Alan Sugar, and boxer Sugar Ray Leonard fight Hitler in space

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Sitcom Pitch: I'M ALL EARS- A horrific, writhing, gurgling, waxy abomination composed of human ears works in a library, and gets frustrated.

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Reality Show Pitch: HAIRIER THAN THOU - Archbishop Rowan Williams and comedian Robin Williams swap jobs; must fool respective congregations.

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I have a sneaking suspicion that someone will come up with a cross between hog roast and lunch. Call it a hunch...

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I'm sure blue Smarties taste different to the yellow ones. Just like urinal cakes.

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I've spent most of today

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I'm making a saucy Star Wars lasagne. I've put half a Jar Jar between every Leia.

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How big does a sleeve have to be before it becomes a tunnel?

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I just thatched the roof of my mouth.

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Vertical stripes make you look slimmer if they're all you eat.

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Do you even open the fridge and forget why? And then you realise you trapped a mouse in there days ago to teach it a lesson?

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I'm really looking forward to feeling nostalgic about this tweet.

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My favourite film music is probably the Threads Megamix.

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Tinsel is like some repugnant Martian parasite bursting its way out of a snake.

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The difference between négligée and illegible is negligible.

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Happy New Year everybody! I hope the coming arbitrarily designated 12-month period will bring you everything you want. Unless what you want conflicts with what I want.

Which it will. Because I don't really want you to get what you want.

(Yes I do)

2011: The Year in Oven Gloves

Welcome one and all and some!

Once again, we find ourselves staring down the barrel of a year with an unfamiliar number at the end of it; in this case: 2. I haven't experienced a year ending with a '2' since 1992 (I was in suspended animation from 2001-2004).

I'm sure you're all planning your New Year's Eve party, which will involve you dressing up as someone who doesn't find the whole thing tedious. You might also be dealing with post-Xmas depression. Perhaps you're trying to get rid of all the mince pies you bought on December 19th. They were on special offer. And you can never have too many mince pies (you thought)!

Now, you have dozens of them, and no-one will take them off your hands. The council will have to send round a special van to collect them from a glittery wheelie bin, along with old tinsel and broken children who have died of happiness.

The future is looking bleak. But today isn't about the future! It's about the past twelve months! This year will soon be forgotten, so let's cling onto it with a redundant list. Everyone does these retrospectives. Some of them have talent, or do them on a professional basis. So why should I add to the teetering pile of fraudulent hindsight?

Because I respect you.

DiamondBadger's Headscissors Review of 2011

(I'm changing the presentation this year. Underlining headings is so 2008.)

If you'd like to see what I've written about in previous years, you can do so here:

2007
2008
2009

2010

I've just re-read these as part of my rigorous presentation, and I almost smiled twice.

2011 was the year of TOO MUCH NEWS. They crammed everything into this year, so I don't know what they have in mind for next year.

Luckily, I'm too self-involved to discuss world events. Instead, I'll complete various categories of "things" and add a couple of new "things". 

I'm a good writer.

Life-Changing Event of 2011

I don't know if I've had a life-changing event this year. Am I exactly the same as I was in 2010? Perhaps I am. I'm older, I suppose. But that's not unique to this year. (I've got older twice before: once in 1989 and again in 1993)

I went on a big march in March (I always remember when it was, because when it was was also what it was). But, other than making me slightly smugger, I don't know if it changed my life.

I bought a Sharpie sometime over the summer. That was pretty big. The event, not the pen.

Maybe I haven't changed. But is that such a bad thing? I might be exactly where I want to be. If it ain't broke... use "isn't" instead.

I know! I've got it! The Life-Changing Event of 2011 was that, for the first time in ages, my life didn't really change!

Nothing will ever be the same again!

Film of 2011

I should retire this category. I never see enough films to make it indicative of anything. I suppose I liked Captain America the best. But that seems unsatisfying.

I should expand it to include films which came out pre-2011, but I saw for the first time this year.

A Fistful of Dynamite would probably win that one. I also saw In Bruges for the first time a few days ago and really enjoyed it.

OK - what I'll do is: NEXT year, I won't open with this category. I don't want to get off on the wrong foot. I'll start with something that will allow me to wax lyrical, and demonstrate how interesting I am. Because I'm not a dull man.

Not dull at all. 

If there's one thing I'm not, it's dull.

Shoe of 2011 (new category!)

The left.

TV Programme of 2011

I've watched quite a bit of television this year by my standards. Most of it has been on DVD, but it still counts.

Honourable mentions go to:

The Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes - a fantastic comic book cartoon that I should have listed last year

Frozen Planet - Attenborough shows how it's done once again: spectacular, mind-blowing, moving, chilly

Fresh Meat - compelling, contemporary, warm-hearted comedy-drama

But there are two shows that stand out.

The runner-up is Breaking Bad.

I watched all four seasons this year, and enjoyed them immensely. I can't get into a lot of US drama, because they seem almost too polished. They take an interesting premise, fill it with expensive-looking sets, attractive actors and witty dialogue, and it leaves me feeling cold.

Breaking Bad is different. It really got under my skin. Tremendous performances all round, constant tension, and some real Holy Shit moments.

I'm looking forward to the next season a little too much.

But the Best TV Programme of 2011 is Louie.

Again, I watched both seasons this year, so this may not be a fair representative of 2011, but I don't care. Comedian Louis CK has created a show that's part stand-up, part sitcom, part drama, and all fantastic. It looks good, its arguments are complex, it's laugh-out-loud funny, it's occasionally terrifying.

This is the kind of television that I wish there was more of. I can't praise it highly enough.

Music of 2011

I'm confused about what music came out when. I forget. I mean, an album that came out in January might as well have come out during the reign of Xerxes the Great. 

But here are some things that look like they came out in 2011.

Various - Before the Fall

This was a great compilation that came out this year, consisting of the original versions of songs The Fall went on to cover. Varied and weird and lots of fun. This has furnished me with many music club playlist tracks, creating the illusion that my tastes are more diverse than they actually are.

Includes this gem:

Blanck Mass - Blanck Mass

I seem to become more interested in this kind of music lately, which is what? Ambient? I don't know. But this album was really good. I think they include one of the guys from Fuck Buttons, but I'm not professional enough to find out.

Ben Folds released a career retrospective CD this year, which was a lot of fun. It included a track recorded in 2011 (Yeah! That's this year!) with Amanda Palmer, Neil "Sandman" Gaiman and Damian Kulash as 8in8.

This song is very nice.

Finally (and I realise this has gone on far too long), the song I've listened to the most this year was released in 1967 as an album track. It's by Phil Ochs (who I've probably written about too much this year). It's slightly preposterous, but I can't get enough of it. This is my Song of 2011.

Misunderstanding of 2011

I was called to a tribunal at work for allegedly making lewd gestures at the cafeteria staff. I thought they said it started at 10, but it was actually 9:30. Embarrassing.

Knock-Knock Joke of 2011 (new category!)

Knock knock

Who's there?

It's the CIA, Mr Bin Laden. You've left your headlights on.

Oh. Oh, OK. Hang on a minute, I'm not wearing any shoes

Stuffed Animal of 2011

Edgar Breadgar AKA Toastface Killah

Lucy bought him at the London Film and Comic Con this year. He appears to be a Japanese toast puppet. We named him.

Tendon of 2011

The patellar tendon. Close one this year.

Albert of 2011

Stand-up of 2011

I've seen shockingly little stand-up this year, possibly as a result of last year's Edinburgh burnout. So the winner of this year's best stand-up is me. I did two shows, both of which were above average. Of course, there were other people on those bills who may have been technically "better" than me, but none of them were as handsome. 

Well, OK. Some of them might technically have been "more handsome" than me, but none of them had the same face and name as me.

Well, OK. Some of them might have been "my funnier twin from another dimension", but they are dead now.

Podcast of 2011

I haven't listened to as many podcasts this year, but have very much enjoyed Marc Maron's WTF podcast, where he interview with comedians and actors, and gets stuck into the nature of comedy and neurosis (particularly his).

Number of 2011

Twenteen.

Celebrity Sighting of 2011

I saw Dylan Moran outside the New Theatre in Oxford. I think that might be it. I think I also saw Rory McGrath on the street at one point.

Pretty slim pickings. Never mind - I did see several of my friends, some of whom are bound to be famous in the coming years (keep an eye out for massacres).

Picture of a Vegetable Made in MS Paint of 2011 (new category!)

Odd Celebrity Crush of 2011

Jeff Goldblum?

That's not that odd, except that I'm a heterosexual man. I think I saw an episode of Larry Sanders that he did, which was funny. Also, he was on a Simpsons DVD commentary, which will automatically make me lust over someone. 

Yeah, that is pretty odd.

Language of 2011

Horse Latin

Tool of 2011

The invisible chisel (or "invisichisel")

Annoyance of 2011 (new category!)

Irrationality. There have been a lot of moments this year (and every year) that have made me angry, due to the closed-mindedness of people.

I suppose I'm mainly thinking of the hoo-ha surrounding the riots, but it happens all the time. People don't stop to think what they're arguing about. I think people have a set position in their head about every topic, so that when someone mentions "immigration" or "badger culls" or "Felix Dexter", they can go right to their pre-prepared argument. They have no idea what they, or the other person, are saying.

Genuine discussion and debate are rare beasts.

Also, I really hate Felix Dexter.

Disclaimer of 2011 (new category!)

I don't really hate Felix Dexter.

Clothing Item of 2011

I've been wearing hoodies a lot this year. They're comfortable, and make me feel like I'm in touch with the youth of today. And if I'm wearing my hood up, I can literally be in touch with the youth of today without anyone giving a useful description to police.

Best Bit from My Review of 2011

"Ambient? I don't know."

Prediction for 2012

I predict that I will have an actual life-changing moment. I'm being shot into space in March, so that should do it. I've never worn a helmet before.

Secondly, I predict that one of The Beatles will come back to life and also, prior to that, will die. Ringo, I think.

Thirdly, I predict that I will panic about four things in September - one of them will have something to do with the metric system.

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That seems to be about the size of it. I hope this has made you smile once. But no more than that. I need to save up my smile-prompting skills for 2012.

Have a glass of champagne for me on New Year's Eve. I'll be avoiding all aspects of the countdown because I'm scared of the number seven and happiness.

Spent

The year is drawing to a close, which is impressive given that the year can't hold a pencil.

Ahahadrawingha.

2011.

"2011" is certainly the way we've designated THAT particular period of time, that's for sure.

I will be doing a customary end-of-year round-up sometime, so I'll leave that fruitful blog topic to ripen on the vine.

But for now, let's not feel compelled to cover too much ground. After all, as the old proverb goes, "he who possesses the widest stride, leaves his testicles vulnerable for the longest time".

So let's shuffle (snug, clenched, protected) through the garden of marginal interest.

--

Hey look! A bush in the shape of a different bush.

Also, a pond containing water.

--

That was fun.

***

I need to get angry about something. People love reading that. I can use a lot of hyperbole and CAPS in an amusing way. All of the best comedy characters are angry about something: Groucho Marx was angry that people kept mispronouncing his name (it rhymes with "Smoocho"); Bugs Bunny hated Egypt; and Bob Mills is still furious about the cancellation of In Bed With Medinner.

The trouble is, I'm too mellow for that. (Except for the noisy neighbours thing from last week.) I'm at peace with the world. There are some things I don't like, but that just adds to the deliciously diverse technicolour cocktail that we call Planet 3.

I don't want to have to manufacture outrage.

But for your sake, I will.

ARRRGHHHH! METHADONE CLINICS! I HATE METHADONE CLINICS!

That'll draw in the readers.

To be honest with you, I don't think I'm ready for another blog post. Not yet. Not today. This is just a way to fill time until my review of the year. (The year of 2011 is the year the year in review will be reviewing)

But this isn't a waste of time. Look - how about this?

Time.

Well.

Spent.

The Shovel

Wednesday 

The hammering stopped at around six. But I still couldn't get to sleep, so I got up and went into the galley. 

I'm not on a ship. I don't know why we even have a galley. I keep losing my footing when I'm frying eggs. Precision spice apportionment is an impossibility. I want a kitchen. I literally can't think of a single reason why we have a galley. I hate galleys.

I made myself some haphazard toast and wandered into the engine room. Again, why? We don't have any engines. There is a coal shovel, but it hasn't been used for years. We should stop calling it the engine room. There's a sofa in there. We should call it the sofa room.

Thursday

Captain called me up on deck at sunrise. A couple of problems there:

1) He is not a Captain. He's my flatmate. He isn't even close to being a Captain. He isn't even close to completing his PGCE.

2) We don't have a deck. We don't even have an accessible roof. 

So there we were: me and the Captain (not a Captain) up on deck (the thick rug in the hallway). He kept barking commands, referring to the poor discipline amongst the crew. He made veiled threats against my personal well-being. I should probably move out.

Friday

A storm knocked us off course. This block of flats is stationary. We didn't have a course. You can't be knocked off a course you're not on. But still, we were. Apparently.

There was no storm, either. There was drizzle, but no wind. Even if we were on a ship (and we're not), the weather couldn't possible have affected us in any way. 

It would have to be a pretty crappy ship to allow drizzle to knock us off course.

But, as I said, this isn't a ship.

Saturday

The hammering started again. I think it was probably someone with a hammer. I asked around, but got no answers because I didn't really ask around in the end because I got distracted.

At noon a telegram arrived. It was from my wife. She says that she and the children miss me terribly. I immediately composed a reassuring reply, but stopped midstream.

Telegram technology is obsolete. I don't even really know how it works. When I see telegrams mentioned in books or films, I just act like I know what they're talking about, when really I have no idea. Is it something to do with Morse Code?

Furthermore, I have no wife or children. They may well be missing me, but not as much as they miss a place in the material world. It's difficult to placate a fictional woman, so I gave up on writing my reply. 

Had some more toast.

Sunday

Another night of no sleep. At ten, Jameson barrelled into my room, bright as a button. I complained about the noise. He told me that there is no such thing as "hammers". I was sceptical. Primarily because Jameson himself does not exist. How could one non-thing be able to judge the thing-ness of another thing (non or otherwise). He couldn't.

Jameson is an idiot.

Monday

At five, the lads (all lies), were invited to the screening room to see a rare print of an old war film. The film starred one of those classic movie actors I can never remember. Kirk or Kurt or Dirk or Burt Something.

The plot was a little thin. The characters were not very fleshed out. To be expected, I suppose, as no-one had started the projector. Also, we don't have a screening room.

Someone had brought popcorn, but it was too salty. Once again, erratic galley seasoning had damaged crew morale. Or would have done so if there was a crew.

Or a galley

Thursday

I haven't written in this journal for two days. There are a couple of reasons for that. Firstly, this journal does not exist. Secondly, it was stolen.

My prime suspects are the Captain (whose coarse bravado has begun to drive a wedge between the enlisted men and the officers), Jameson, and a mysterious figure in black, who I saw moving the coal shovel when she or he thought no-one was looking.

After two days of panic, I found the journal on a shelf only I am tall enough to reach. Next to the journal was a hammer. 

Friday

Finally, we have sighted land. It was always there. I could have just looked out the window. I'm starting to wish I was on a boat. At least then I'd be able to row away.

At least there was no more hammering. I clutched my own found hammer, ready for a revenge hammering of my own. A taste of their/my own medicine.

The Captain has gone away for the weekend. I've tried on his hat, which was too tight and made-up, and messed up my hair.

Saturday

If we were on a ship (and we're not), we would be sunk. A phantom cannonball shot through the hull and let gallons of no water in.

There were no survivors, except for me, and all the other people that are fine because nothing happened.

I'm writing this on a buoy, which seems implausible.

Tell my wife she has nothing to be alive of.

Straightforward

Let's forget all about that big event that just happened with the [CENSORED] and the [CENSORED] and the mulled [CENSORED].

I'm reclaiming the period between 27 and 30 December as a time for thinking about something else. I don't know what yet. Possibly brackets.

But first, I need to do the washing up. I'll let you know how it goes.

***

Straightforward.

At one point, I put a spoon in the little cutlery... holster... thing on the draining bored and it fell out. I then jammed it hard back in there, to send a message to any other rebel utensils that might have been watching.

We call it "washing up". The Americans (I believe) call it "washing the dishes".

[I don't know what the Canadians do. You can never tell with them. They're liable to celebrate Boxing Day on the one hand, and speak French with the other. You can speak French with your hand, if you make a fist and draw a beret and some onions on it.

I seem to be in an easily distractible mood.]

I don't know which washing term I prefer. "Washing the dishes" sounds much more specific. There's no way that can get misconstrued. No-one who's seen that on their chore rota would started scrubbing satellite dishes, or some other kind of dish (such as Soapdish with Kevin Kline).

"Washing up" could be anything. "Washing up" might refer to cleaning your hands before dinner. Or something to do with the Pixar film.

But perhaps it's better to be vague. If you "wash the dishes", you might ignore other items that don't seem to be dish-like. A spatula is not a dish. A mug is not a dish. An egg hammock is not a dish.

COME ON. THIS IS GOLD.

TEN MINUTES OF STAND-UP RIGHT HERE.

Everyone likes material on chores.

It's the first thing you learn in comedy school: CHORES = GUFFAWS.

***

Mood

Erratic

(I'm going to stop using these prompts in the new year. They are inhibiting my flow. Think about how much longer that washing up bit could have gone on for!)

Listening to

I've been given some good music as a [CENSORED] present, and have bought some more today. I heard this yesterday, and enjoyed it.

Reading

More Pinker. Did you know: more people were killed in Washington DC last year than weren't?

***

In fact: FORGET IT. I'm bored of being compelled to tell you all the things I'm listening to and smelling. (I reserve the right to tell you those things in my next post)

Let's get unfettered! I could go anywhere! I could be anyone!

I could tell you about the time I went coconut shy-diving.

Everyone should do it once before (or after) they die. Here's how it works:

Instead of an aeroplane, you jump out of a big paper cake. Instead of a parachute, you're wearing nothing whatsoever. And instead of jumping into the sky, you jump into a coconut shy.

Do it suddenly. You may find that it's painful (what with the hard coconuts and the nudity and all), and that you might ruin the days of many children, but the adrenaline rush is off the scale.

Remember: this must be done at a public carnival, fair, fayre, or "amusing park". Doing it at a private coconut shy is no fun.

Whilst you're there, you might also want to play chicken with the ghost train.

You see? Anywhere!

I never wear pink in case I start bleeding and it clashes.

You see?

I just tweeted that. I don't care. I'm a wild man. I'm a wild card. Admittedly, I don't know how to drive and I've never had cocaine and I'm too afraid of people to even answer my own phone. But still!

WILD!

Like a wild rabbit!

Look how wild it is!

No-one tells that rabbit what to do. That rabbit could be in the rabbit version of Easy Rider.

(Do your own Dennis Hopper joke. I'm too wild right now.)

***

Whew.

That was tiring. All of those exclamation marks have left me feeling quite worn out.

I haven't had anything to eat yet today. No rabbit; no nothing.

I should probably have something to eat.

I'll have something to eat. I'll let you know how it goes.

***

Straightforward.

I had two toasted pieces of Tesco Finest Farmhouse Multigrain Batch, beneath Tesco Olive Spread, beneath Squeezy Marmite.

Two points of interest there:

1) I saw a stain on the floor whilst the bread was mid-toasting. I managed to scrub it and dry it before the bread popped up.

2) I just went to make sure I had the exact names of the items correct. I had to get up. I was dead-set on getting it right. Even though no-one could possibly care. Even if they did care, they'd have no way of checking I was telling the truth, unless they broke in here, today, and checked the cupboards. I'm an idiot.


If I'm honest, there was probably too much Marmite on there.

Now I'm thirsty.

I hate it when people begin sentences "If I'm honest...".

I mean, you should probably be honest. I understand if you can't be. And if you have to keep something from me (perhaps you're having an affair (or an affayre) with my biggest rival from fencing college), begin your sentence with "To be honest...".

That's fine. You're indicating your honesty.

"If I'm honest..." suggests that even you don't know whether or not you're telling the truth. In which case, why bring honesty into it? You don't know. Leave it ambiguous. Or come clean with your uncertainty.

"To be honest, I'm not sure if I'm honest. I think."

COME ON. THIS COULD BE MY SECOND ENCORE.

I should probably leave you to be alone with your thoughts now.

I'm going to get a drink.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Loud

It's my last day at work, no-one is here, I haven't had an email all day, so I'm writing this.

And if the Big Shots up at Head Office don't like it, then... I'll never do it again. Sorry, Big Shots.

I don't think we have any Big Shots. Or a Head Office. Even if we did, I doubt they'd read this blog.

If they did read this blog, I probably would have been fired some time ago.

Things have slowed to a crawl here at Badger Towers (that's where I work). I feel like the whole world is grinding to a stop; a clockwork machine bleeding out its last bit of momentum, waiting for a rejuvenating wind on New Year's Eve.

That's 'wind' as in 'winding a clock', not 'wind' as in 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley".

I don't know what a rejuvenating wind would be, if it was the latter. Some sort of Red Bull guff bubbling out of the fountain of youth.

There was a loud party in the flat below ours last night. It went on until 1am, which isn't that late I suppose. But still: I hope everyone who attended that party dies of boat cancer.

The bass was thumping, the idiots were yelping and chanting and chattering, the floor was shaking, and my blood pressure was rising.

I hate people who are that inconsiderate. If you live in a block of flats, you must realise that other people live there. It's not just a massive attic.

There are families that live in our building - and children don't enjoy noise at that time unless they're making it themselves.

The thing is, I can understand a few cunts. (And excuse my language, but I feel it's justified) There's bound to be a few horrible individuals with no empathy and no notion of that other people even exist. But there must have been at least one person at the party who thought "hey guys, maybe we should turn it down a bit".

If they did think that, they didn't say it. Cowards.

Cowards like me. I also didn't say anything. Lucy was brave though, and went down to get them to shut their window. (Yes, the window was wide open, letting noise and toxic fucking twat-gas out into the night air) They did shut the window, but the obnoxiousness still seeped through the floor.

In situations like this, I sit, seething, stressed out, unable to relax. I resent that they invade my private life. I resent that they haven't considered the consequences of their actions.

Then I start to fantasise. About what I'd like to do. Smashing the stereo with a baseball bat is a good one. Or waking them up early the following morning.

I thought about setting fire to their flat and burning them all alive. But, as we live above them, that would probably be self-defeating. We'd find ourselves the victims of our own diabolical plan, and would be smelling corpse-smoke for a week.

Yesterday, I thought of an amusing (and harmless) alternative. I thought it would be funny if I wrote a blog post about how despicable they are, and then posted the URL through their letterbox. I think it would confuse them. But it might be fun if they made it here and read about themselves and my wishes for their pain.

I might even gain some regular readers. They'd come for the death threats, but stay for the wordplay and sideways look at modern life.

But, as always, my anger has been quashed by a night's sleep, and I've become sensible again. It was only one night; it's not a regular thing. It was probably just a Christmas party. And we all make mistakes.

So I don't think I'll post a link to this through their letterbox. Or maybe I will.

I'll tell you what - if they have another party tonight, I'm going to post it. It will be written with poisoned ink, on the skin of their closest family member. That will teach them to be unreasonable.

Mood

Magnanimous

Listening to

This came up on shuffle yesterday. I don't know what to make of it. I'm not sure why, how or if it exists.

Reading

Pinker on the decline of violence again. Did you know: you're more likely to be raped by Mighty Mouse than stabbed by a teenager?

I might have remembered that wrong - I was slightly skimming.

(I don't like to use rape as a comedy concept, but it popped into my head. In relation to Mighty Mouse, I think it's OK. Also, there's this disclaimer. I'm not a bad guy. Honest.)

Watching

Batman: The Brave and the Bold

It's a cartoon that revels in the cheesy, camp side of the Caped Crusader (in contrast to more serious modern interpretations). There's lots of fun to be had - many in-jokes, and some nice comic re-imaginings of well-known characters (especially John "Bender" DiMaggio's hilarious Aquaman).

This episode features a villain called The Music Meister (voiced by Neil Patrick Harris), who forces the heroes to sing with his special powers. Pretty wacky stuff, but lots of fun.


Mayhem of the Music Meister! [Part3] by notpsychopirate

(Hey, that description sounded quiet serious, didn't it? Like something a proper blogger would write. It's nice for a change of pace, but I prefer jokes that go nowhere, and endless parentheses.)

Parlaying

Some... I don't know... something to do with gambling?

Eating

Three sausages, a hard boiled egg and some carrots. All smothered in thousand island dressing.

What?

Drinking

Delicious water. Mmm.

FACT: Human beings are made up of 90% deliciousness.

***

Happy Boxing Day Eve Eve Eve, everyone. I hope Santa brings you everything you want and that Atnas (or "Reverse Santa") manages to hoard loads of presents for his evles to disassemble.

You look fantastic in that skirt.

Twice Shy

I'm shy.

I've been shy for as long as I can remember. It's possible that I wasn't shy as a young child. Most babies aren't shy. They cry. They crave attention. They're pompous and needy. So I was probably like that.

But I got shy. I stayed shy.

I don't know why.

My parents aren't particularly shy. I used to think that was because they were adults, and that no adults were shy. But I am now an adult. There's no getting around it. And I'm shy.

My shyness waxes and wanes, I think. You can condition yourself to be less shy by spending more time with people. But the underlying shyness remains. I'm terrible at meeting new people. I give off an awkward energy that makes everyone else uncomfortable.

Unless I'm drunk. Alcohol dampens my shyness. Unless I'm just too drunk to notice it.

That's probably why I don't drink. I need my shyness. It's like a comfort blanket. In an uncertain world, it's good to hold onto something concrete, even if the concrete thing is a statue of me not knowing whether or not to hug a friend.

I think shyness is a genuine psychological condition. But I'm not sure, because I've never had the guts to turn up to any shy support group meetings. It would be awkward. We'd all just sit there for fifty minutes, wondering if we should introduce ourselves, then go home.

Mood

Shy. One of the lesser-recognised no-vowel words. The 'y' is the supply teacher of vowels - stepping in to take over when one of the main vowels is busy.

The 'y' wasn't formally trained in vowelling - but when push comes to shove, and the 'u' is in 'push', and the 'o' and the 'e' are in 'shove' and the 'a' is in 'and', and the 'i' is too egocentric to turn up, you have to call on the 'y'.

The 'y' is a utility player. The Phil Neville of letters.

Sometimes, I'm sure the 'y' questions itself. "Why?", it might ask. "Why not?", it may answer, with a reluctant 'o'.

Listening to

Quite often, I listen to a Frank Black song and wonder why he's not more popular. I think he's probably too prolific. A constant stream of genius is difficult to take on board. The spectacular becomes mundane. He releases albums all the time - always of a high standard.

What's that?

There's an analogy to be made between his output and this blog?

We are both so prolific - him with his albums, me with my hundreds of blog posts - that it's like drowning our audience in treacle and beauty and money?

We should both be much more famous, laden with awards, and respected by the entire planet?

I don't know if I agree with that.

I don't know. I can sort-of see what you're getting at. It does make sense. It...

Yes.

I agree.

We are both geniuses.

And yes, I am even geniuser than him.

...

I'm shy, by the way. I don't know if I mentioned that.


Reading

More Pinker.

People under state control are less likely to die than hunter/gatherers. I think it's because that term is cumbersome. Hunter/gatherers. You don't want a slash in your occupation (unless you're a large-hatted guitarist).

They should combine the terms. Huntatherers. That's much better.

The olden days people would have been less likely to bludgeon their fellow man if they were all huntatherers.

Though perhaps warfare would emerge between the huntatherers and the gunters.

I hate the gunters.

Watching

We watched The Dark Knight again yesterday, this time on Blu-ray. It looked great. I'm still not 100% sold on it, but am probably 96% sold, which is pretty good.

Also, I watched Blackburn vs Bolton. I have nothing interesting to say about that. I wasn't even going to bring it up, but I thought it might be fun as a challenge.

Can I say something interesting about a football match, when a large proportion of my readership don't care about football, and I have no particular interest in either team?

Can I?

No. Not today. But the abbreviated team names did make me think of the Marvel character Black Bolt.

Black Bolt can't speak, because his voice is powerful enough to destroy mountains. Which is cool.

'Black Bolt' is short for 'Blackagar Boltagon'. Which is not.

I might call my son Blackagar.

Blackagar Fung.

They can call him Black Fu for short, though he'll have to learn a racist martial art.

Playing

The Highlander in a confusing nativity play.

Eating

Tenderstem broccoli dipped in Moroccan-topped houmous. Because I worry that I'm not middle class enough.

And some supermarket pepperoni pizza. Because I don't worry that.

Drinking

Jasmine tea.

There's nothing funny about that, but I always tell the truth.

***

What have we learned today?

Firstly, that I'm shy.

Secondly, that I'm arrogant.

Thirdly, that Boltagon is a common surname.

Fourthly, that I always tell the truth.

Fifthly, that I don't always tell the truth.

Remember: believe in yourself. You definitely exist. I've checked.

Grey Area

This is me getting started.

I have now started.

After intending to write something thoughtful and coherent, I stared at the blank page for a long time. My laptop battery is only so capacious. So I've started anyway.

Once you start, you can change direction. The starting is the hardest part. And the stopping, but we'll get to that later. I've started. I can go anywhere I like now.

***

In a sock drawer, behind the socks, was a box. If you were to remove the socks, and the sock-related accessories (darning needle, sock suspenders, sock puppets), and open the box, you would be able to see its contents.

The box belonged to Brock Knox. Brock never removed the socks, because he already knew what was inside the box. He didn't need a reminder.

Brock was a locksmith. He knew his business inside and out, just as he knew the box. The locks on the box (and yes, there were multiple locks) could not be picked or cracked or prised open. The box was small, but the locks were strong.

But still, Brock used the sock drawer socks as extra protection. Brock Knox didn't take risks.

One morning, Brock returned home from work to find the contents of his sock drawer strewn across the floor. Brock was in shock.

He hurried over to check the drawer. He could sew himself another sock puppet any day of the week. Sock suspenders are cheap at the local market. But the box... the box was irreplaceable.

Brock reached into the back of the drawer, and was hugely relieved to find his fingers pressing against a box-shaped object. It was the box.

But when he removed the box from its drawer, he saw that it was open. The locks had yielded, the bolts slid into nothing but air.

The box was empty.

Brock Knox checked his clocks. He had three of them - all set to roughly the same time. He looked back at the box. He looked back at the clocks.

It was half past six in the evening. Brock picked up his phone, but didn't dial a number. He put the phone back down. He knew it was too late.

Somewhere, a thief - a master lock-picker - had the contents of Brock's box. The thief could be miles away. But Brock knew how to find him. Because the box's final lock was not made of metal. The final lock could not be picked.

The final lock was chicken pox.

And whoever had fought past the socks and locks to retrieve the box would be wearing their guilt all over their itchy skin.

***

You see? Anywhere. You just need to get started.

It's a grey, miserable day. Nearly the shortest day of the year. I need sunlight to function. I'm like a reverse vampire. I'm sick of winter already, and there's still months of it to go.

I might emigrate. But where to? Somewhere warm, but not too full of chatty restaurateurs. Some Shangri-La.

Hmm. I thought there would be an 'n' in restaurateurs. But apparently not.

I suppose it's easier to wait here until spring. I'll just set myself on fire to ward off the darkness.

Mood

I don't know. Anxious, I think.

Listening to

It's possible that my anxiousness might be related to this song. It's good though. Give it a few minutes to kick in.

Also, I've been listening to this:

Boy! I just had a scary moment when I thought I'd lost this post. Imagine! All this hard work! That whole box story alone could make me millions!

I certainly dodged that bullet. I'd better finish this before anything bad happens.

Reading

Not much

Watching

A man in a hoodie standing in the garden across the road. He looks suspicious, but then I'm sure he'd say the same about me. I mean, only one of us is spying on their neighbours, and it isn't Mr Hood over there.

Oh no, hang on. Some old people have just got out of a car. They're with him. He can't be suspicious. Old people don't hang around with suspicious people. They can smell it in the air with their sensitive tongues.

My apologies, Hood.

Playing

The "Write a Blog Post Before the Laptop Battery Runs Out" Game. I'm winning so far, but it could all change on the roll of the dice. (I once had a roll of the dice at a Las Vegas bakery. I bit down on it and lost seven teeth. Lucky.)

Eating

A sandwich, no dice, granary bed, M&S reduced fat tuna and sweetcorn sandwich filler, some smoothie and a big slice of fortune. Delicious.

Drinking

Oh, right. I suppose the smoothie goes down here. Though, is it really a drink? It used to be solid. It's a grey area. Delicious.

(Grey Area Smoothie Ingredients: John Major (remember him?), charcoal, one of those little aliens, two chunks of British sky, a dolphin and one pressed pencil)

***

I don't blame you if you never want to read this blog again. All I ask is that you do read it again.

Good afternoon.

Did you hear the one?

Let's get silly!

WhoooaaAAAHhhhh! I just slipped on a banana part!

No - don't put that there! *SMASH* My bust of Busta Rhymes!

*DING-DONG* Who could that be?

*CRACK* *PUNCH* Ohhhhhh, nooooo! It's an unexpected criminal!

***

Slapstick doesn't really work in blogs.

Mood

Neutral. This is the first of five days off work, and I'm feeling paralysed by possibility. What should I do? What shouldn't I do? Why shouldn't I?

I'm also worried that I might be blogging too much, with too little result(s). Am I diluting my brand? Do I have a brand?

I'd hate to think so.

Perhaps I'm too fixated on my post count. In the back of my mind, I'm considering the possibility of beating last year's number of blog posts. I did 138 in 2010. This is number 131 in 2011. It might be tight.

But no-one cares about that except me. I should be blogging less frequently, but thinking about it more. I'm sure I could come up with something well thought-out and consistently funny if I put my mind to it.

But (2) I suppose the haphazard approach has defined this blog. I don't want to change my tack now, do I?

I could try to set myself a goal for one serious, proper, considered post every two weeks or so. I'm sure everyone is eager to hear my views on the economy.

I wonder if I'm just treading water.

I certainly seem to be doing so on Twitter. After pathetically begging for more followers on my birthday, I still haven't reached 300. I seem to gain a few and lose a few every now and then. Perhaps I was just never meant to reach the big three-oh-oh.

This has been rather indulgent so far, hasn't it? I get like this every now and then.

People aren't interested in me; they're interested in the big laffs.

What do you call an iPod with three legs?
A TriPod

There you go. Taste those crumbs.

Of course, this is just the 'mood' section. I'm expected to be maudlin up here. But the sections below will be bulging with more gold than a conquistador's knapsack.

I hope you're wearing goggles, because you're about to laugh your eyes out.

Listening to

Christmas music. Not much, but too much.

I don't know if I like Christmas music because I don't know if I like Christmas. Festive songs have no value of their own. They're avatars. Cyphers. Other words that probably don't mean that.

If you like Xmas (that's right: Xmas), the songs remind you of the pleasure of family and good food and childhood excitement. If you don't like Xmas, the songs remind you of the displeasure of family and disgusting food and childhood excrement.

I'm undecided about all of it. Which probably adds to my neutral mood. I don't like feeling neutral. It's unsettling. I feel bad. Which means I don't feel neutral any more. Which means I feel good. Which cancels out the bad, making me feel neutral again. And so on.

This hasn't been as funny as I'd hoped. So let's do some hilarious festive jokes!

*

What do you call a snowman with a mince pie in his mouth?
A clever solution to dwindling food storage space

*

Santa (peering out of the window): Looks like rain, dear.
Mrs Claus: Of course! They pull your sleigh!
Santa: What?
Mrs Claus: They pull your sleigh!
Santa: Yes, I heard you. I just wondered what you meant.
Mrs Claus: I... I just meant...
Santa: What? WHAT?
Rudolph: STOP FIGHTING. IT'S CHRISTMAS.

*

What does Lou Reed want for Christmas?
Heroin.

*

Did you hear the one about the man who looked like a Christmas pudding? Someone covered him in brandy and lit him on fire. To save face, he claimed it was a protest against the Chinese occupation of Tibet! Ironically, doctors were unable to save his face.

*

You see? Laughter is the greatest gift of all.

Also, I've been listening to this:

Reading

The Better Angels of Our Nature by Steven Pinker

I got this for my birthday, and am really enjoying it. It's about how, despite a common belief to the contrary, violence of all kinds has decreased. I'm really interested in how people always view their own generation as the worst ever, and see the past as a golden age, so it's good to have some stats to pass this up.

Thanks, Pinker.

Here are some Steven Pinker jokes:

*

Due to his rosy complexion and graceful gait, Steven is known in some circles as The Panth Pinker.

*

Before Steven came along, the patron saint of linguists was St Pink. (Now it's St Even Pinker. Get it?)

*

Knock-knock
Who's there?
Steven Pinker
Steven Pinker who?
What?
Steven Pinker who?
No. That's it. That's my full name.
Steven Pinker who?
I just told you...
Rudolph: STOP FIGHTING. IT'S CHRISTMAS.

*

Is it possible to die of being too prolific? If so, I'd better get my affairs in order.

Watching

Fist of Fun

I ordered this from Go Faster Stripe, which is an independent comedy DVD shop. I've bought quite a lot of stuff from them before, and they're great. This is their biggest venture: paying a lot of money to distribute Stewart Lee and Richard Herring's cult 90s sketch show, because the BBC didn't want to.

The package has a ridiculous amount of extras, including commentaries, bonus shows and the live studio rushes.

I never watched FOF when it was on (I only leapt on the Lee and Herring bandwagon with TMWRNJ), so it's been lots of fun to finally see all these in full.

I haven't watched enough to give a full review, so here are some jokes about Lee and Herring and fists and fun.

*

Did you hear about the man who had a fish in his ear? He was hard of hearing. Also, the fish was a herring.

*

What's the difference between Bruce Lee and Sara Lee? One of them ices cakes, and the other one cakes ices!
(To "cake an ice" is kung fu slang for kicking a bit of wood)

*

Knock-knock (the knock was made by a clenched fist)
Who's there?
Steven Pinker.
Steven Pinker who?
Look, we've been through this...
I know - but I find it fun.
Rudolph: THIS IS NO FUN

*

Of course, Pinker doesn't believe in Rudolph. That's an extra layer of comedy.

Playing

With a spinning top. It's the best spinning top I've ever spun. I might write a whole blog post about it. It's amazing. I don't do anything else.

*

Did you hear the one about the man (who might have been Steven Pinker, but it's not important for the joke) who accidentally sat on a spinning top?
He got a spinning bottom!

*

Ahahaha. I'm proud of EVERY WORD OF THIS.

Eating

A wholemeal roll.

*

Did you hear about the gymnast who used krill instead of a gym mat?
He was the expert at the WHALEMEAL ROLL.

(Whales eat krill)
(Gymnasts roll)

*


The gravity in my black hole-meal roll is so strong that even light spread can't escape.

*

Still going well!

Drinking

Orange juice

*

Knock-knock
*SHOTGUN BLAST*
Now you're Steven REDDER. Because of the blood.
Rudolph: *sniff* Just like my nose.
Fish-Ear Man: Pardon?

***

This has been an excellent use of my time. And yours.

I'll give you until the count of three to get off my property. But not now. I've forgotten where I keep my numbers.