Tom Cruise

Who could best be described as the Afrikaans equivalent of Tom Cruise?
Tom Kroos!

But let's stop kidding around here, folks: Would you like to eat a little bit of Tom Cruise?
Courtesy Gage Skidmore
So would I! If everyone who wants to eat a little bit of Tom Cruise got together, we could make it happen!

Here's how it works: They KILLED A GIRAFFE in DENMARK using the EXACT SAME METHOD! And they fed the big giraffe to the LIONS at Copenhagen Zoo.

It's the EXACT SAME SYSTEM, EXCEPT TOM CRUISE IS THE GIRAFFE, AND WE'RE THE LIONS!!! RARRGGHHH!

Marius the Giraffe isn't alone - every year, thousands of healthy animals are put to death in Europe's zoos because they require more genetic variance than the British Royal Family!

Hence the recent Facebook protest, where everyone had a giraffe pic - AS A REMINDER, LEST WE FORGET!

MARIUS R.I.P.

[MARIUS PHOTO WITHHELD BY ZOO.]

If we can lure Tom Cruise to Denmark under the pretense of promoting a movie, and put him to sleep according to the rules and regulations of the European Association of Zoos and Aquaria, then it's dinner time!

Special Note: As humans, we don't have to argue that Tom Cruise is too genetically homogeneous. All we have to do is to argue that as a Scientologist, Mr. Cruise is halal, kosher, and darn-tootin' tasty!

Send $1 now* to assist in the Fund for Tom Cruise Meat Conversion today.

*If enough money is raised in this appeal, any further contributions will go towards the costs of any civil or criminal litigation that results in Tom's death and GOOD EATIN'!

AN EARLY CHILDHOOD CHAPTER 27 PART 3: A VISIT FROM AN ARCH ENEMY?



AN EARLY CHILDHOOD CHAPTER 27 PART 3: A VISIT FROM AN ARCH ENEMY?

Continued from Part 2.
Dyll returned to the flat twenty minutes later, with a bag of quality luncheon meats and bread, a high intensity, Dental Hygiene Association approved drill, two packets of forty pairs of ski-masks (the goggle kind), a ukulele, a calculating machine, a sock full of sauer Polish chickengoose bubble wrap, and a rumour.

                “I heard Colonel Coote Decker just fled my apartment, boys! Something about a haunting! He’s coming back with the chief of the Paranormal Investigation Squad! The last thing I need is a visit from that PIS Head!” she said. “He claims a ghost bride attacked him in bed! What’s going on?” Her hands were on her hips in anger. Cousin Barney and I exchanged glances, shrugging. Then her dog appeared. The big beast looked perfectly normal, with the exception of the fact that he still had a bridal garter on one of his legs.


                “I told you to take off everything!” I shouted at the big beast, “Everything! When you were getting undressed again!”

                “Whump,” the dog replied, apologetically, shaking the garter loose from his thick tree trunk of a dog paw and flicking it into my hand. With his leg raised, an accidental, instinctive splash of urine hit the floor. “Whump,” he repeatered, apologetically, looking sheepdoggishly downwards in acute embarrassment.

                “We have to do something!” Dyll said, tossing a peppermint into her mouth. It rattled around against her teeth as she considered her next move. “You Irish boys need to leave here.”
                And so, moments later, Barney and I found ourselves out on the streets of Londing Town, in the cold nip of mid morning. There was a livery van approaching, with all the bells and whistles.

                “Oi!” Coote Decker roared, hanging from the modesty flap above the van’s rearview mirror. “Halt, you facking Payyyydeeees!”

                Barney was sprinting down the street and into an alleyway. I followed, the van tearing up the distance between us and it. Barney’s artificial leg trembled.

                “I feel water!” he said, his leg acting as a divining rod, and he swept aside a pile of rubbish to reveal a metal drainage jobbymajig. He pulled it open, and jumped into the sewer with a splishsplosh.

                “This is my hiding place!” he said. “You find a set of curtains or something to hide behind.”

                “You might be my elderly cousin, but I holler Uncle!” I hollered. “No way!” And in I jumped to join him.

Continued in the next instalment.

Cosmetics Survey

In a survey of 208 women at a total of three events, 76% claimed that a new anti ageing skin serum was better than their current skin cream. However, it has been discovered that of that 76% - comprising 158 of those surveyed alongside an elderly woman's head - a large majority ticked the box for a variety of reasons beyond their own opinions.
Serum tub (magnified x 10)

(There was actually little confidence in the new serum.)

At one of the market research events, a woman arrived late, telling everyone around her as they sat through a presentation that she was "fit to burst with the bladder on me". She spent a lot of time squirming and tapping her leg on the floor. At the first opportunity, when the handsome facecream salesman turned to look at the details from an overhead projector slide, she ticked the Yes boxes on her questionnaire and quickly dashed to the toilet.

"She would never have made a show of herself with men around!" one of the other women was heard tutting.

Other women said they would buy the new serum. They failed to qualify their admission, however.

For instance, an older woman's head agreed that she liked the serum, but she was unable to control her movements in order to rub it on her face.
"Her hands are wibbly with age," explained a younger neighbour, also at the event, in mock epic tones. Then she added: "Wibbly Janice!"

Several women said that they would refuse to buy the serum, if they were faced with the rigmarole of entering credit card details on a website, even though these same women had claimed that they would buy it.

The handsome salesman at the event was embarrassed with the qualifications, when approached later.

"I spent a lot of aftershave and Brylcreem on these events," he said.

One woman qualified further:

"If it kind of came up as a pop-up ad, I'd just close the window. But if it was on a banner ad, I might click in, just to see. And maybe Favorite it. I don't think I'd buy it till I went to the shop. If it was more expensive in the shop, I'd come home and order it."

"If a sales representative turned up on my doorstep with the serum and offered it to me half price, I'd definitely buy one," claimed one woman afterwards, "...if he was in a fireman's uniform, and if I had cash! But they didn't have a box for that! But I would buy one. So I said Yes."

AN EARLY CHILDHOOD CHAPTER 27 PART 2: A VISIT FROM AN ARCH ENEMY?

 AN EARLY CHILDHOOD CHAPTER 27 PART 2: A VISIT FROM AN ARCH ENEMY?

Continued from here!

 An Early Childhood by Paddy Flanagan is a mock surreal autobiography. Its first chapter is here. It parodies misery memoirs (such as Angela’s Ashes by the late great Frank McCourt), as well as science fiction, pop culture, and literature of various kinds.


After getting out of her wedding dress and back into her bra n knicks, Dyll pulled open the door.
"Allo, allo, allo!" boomed the voice of Colonel Coote Decker, First Earl of Mountwrath, a veritable Englander of Hiberno descent, and one of my mortal enemies. He stormed into the apartment, Barney and myself scrambling to get underneath the bed.

Dyll escorted him in, giving us enough time to hide. He was in a policeman's uniform - apparently his civilian job when he wasn't with the Terrorterrible Army, as was the name for the part timers in His Beardy Majesty's service, even if they were high ranking officers!

"I can't stay, lovvah!" Dyll insisted. "I have to go and get my shopping from the German discount supermarket."
German discount supermarkets were all the rage in England in the 1920s, due to the hyperinflation in the Weimar Republic. (You could get, like, a packet of noodles, and a box of four sachets of instant soup, for like, the equivalent of less than a euro in today's money. And you would still have a quarther groat and two thruppence hae'penny fartings left to play around with in your pocket on the walk home, or to feed to the coin-hungry, wish-granting goats on the banks of the local canal near the vicarage.)


Colonel Decker stood in his civilian clothes, taking off his helmet and unclicking his epaulettes, placing them beside the open fire to charge them, so that they would glow a glittery gold on their return to his shoulders.

"I can't stay, lovvah!" Dyll repeatered. "I have a shop to do!"

"Well, I can wait here. I've had a rough time of it, Dyll. I was in a castle back in Ireland, before the entire place blew up! Terrible nightmares during my stay at what became my headquarters. Honest to goodness, man! Errrr girl! We need to chat!"

"Nightmares?"

"The castle was blooming haunted! A woman, stalking the corridors, looking for her lost dead love from the rebellion of 1798!!! The poor bride, howling along the corridors, asking me - me! a blooming Englander - for help!"

"Look, I'm heading out, love. We can talk later!"

Colonel Coote Decker leapt onto the bed.
"I'm staying here!" he insisted, his childlike petulance echoing around the room, filling the hearts of myself and Cousin Barney with dread.

"It's your funeral!" Dylly Oblong declared, slipping into a pair of sans culottes and a blouson. "I'll be back in an hour!"

Colonel Decker threw his uniform on the floor before our very eyes, our hearts tumping. Dylly departered the apartment. Soon, there was snoring.

All of a whisper under the bed, I said:
"I thought Colonel Decker had been killed back before Ireland blew up, blasted by lightning."
Cousin Barney nodded, replying:
"But I heard he was revived through an unlightning procedure. And he had a couple of moles removed too."

The snores comprised a rich, buzzing, bed-shaking rumble, seismic in proportion and equally adept at being skull-boring. I scrambled out from under the bed, snatched Dyll's wedding dress off its hanger soundlessly, and ran into the next room. I put the dress onto the dog, Aijus Mite Eeetchyoo, Dyll's Larger Fokov Mastiff, from Russia. He took to the dress like a duck to water, even doing a bit of a dance. I slipped the veil over his head.

 "Go and say good morning again to Dyll!" I whispered in his ear, and he let a noise out of him in agreement that sounded like "Whump!"

He bounded into the bedroom after I opened the door, got up at the foot of the four poster bed to look at his owner, and saw the face of Colonel Coote Decker, the Earl of Mountwrath. He howled. The Colonel looked up, saw the canine bride - and screamed.

"The bride from the castle has followed me home!" he roared.

The big friendly dog didn't appreciate that kind of talk, and bounded out of the room again. The colonel scrambled out of the bed, snatched his uniform, and fled the apartment, screaming down the street in his total and absolute nakedity.

To be continued in Part 3 of this chapter...

Dyeaarmwadge Mc Mweerkhhhadda on Love and Marriage


Journalist Dyeaarmwadge McMweerkhhhadda made a striking point in an interview late last year:

"I was talking to this class of kids, and the teacher put them up to it, to ask the questions about whether I'm a social fabric conditioner kind of guy or a kind of a homophonic spree. I think it might've been because he fancied me, the teacher. They're very capricious, these people. One moment, they're turned on by you, the next, they turn on you. And next thing, him and his boyfriend, and his boyfriend's boyfriend, they're all at you. But a little French fella in the classroom, he was asking me about equality. He says to me, he says:
"You 'ave Gherryguld 'ere? A puh-puh-puh!" he said. "We ALL want Gherryguld!"
And he only had butter, to use, as a social lubricant, in front of him in his little, his little boite de dejeuner.

"I said I don't have a problem with equality. But I said to him, the little French lad, I explained to him, yehkunchya, I said you don't have any rights as a father. Yahhhbollixyehhh. If your girlfriend decided to give your child up for adoption, I told him, there's trouble a-brewing. You can wait for the baby to pop, and then just snatch him and run. Or you can apply for guardianship. If you don't get that, I said, I said What next? Putting on the Batman outfit is what. So bring over all the French, I said. Let all the French come over, the French intellectuals, and see what they have to say. All the politicians. Yer woman LePen and all the rest.

"Because the chances are quite high that a few years from now, in this day and age, your little son will be living across the street, with two gay fathers, making a mockery of of of of of of of of of of the whole history of the normative normative. You'll see the two husbands every morning, toddling off to the park with your son, in his sequins or his little velvet babygro. Making a mockery. Waving at you.
"Look what weeeee've got!" Pointing at your son, in the velvet babygro. "Look at what weeeeee've got! Yehkunchya!"
And they'll be wearing matching babygros as well. In the same size. They're not made in bigger sizes. What can you do? You can't shout 'That's my son! Don't be too fragrant with my son!'

"You'll see them in the local park every summer, chasing your son in their matching velvet, looking like they're wearing velvet turkeys as underpants, and little or nothing else, laughing and playing and trying to throw balls to him. If that's not wrong, what is?"