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Funny as a duck on a cold winters morning
They had told him to do it. He didn’t know why, but they said he must do it. He didn’t want to, he knew it was wrong, but the way The Beatles said it to him, it seemed alright.
He had been banished from his hometown because of The Beatles, why had they told him to do that, and so persuasively too. When they sing it lulls the mind, but The Beatles singing about grave digging! It’s almost unheard of… until now.
He had lived in a small rural town on the outskirts of Bekhistan where sheep lived with dogs and farmers satisfied their hunger with pitchforks instead, what hunger I cannot specify as I am not hungry for anything, except maybe a tar coated earlobe. The town Günter came from had no name in particular; therefore it will be called a small rural town in Bekhistan for copy-write reasons. In Bekhistan he had grown up and when this ‘growing up’ was complete he ate potatoes by the fire and listened to Millwall games, on the wireless of course.
Ringo Star was such a persuasive fellow when you could see him, John Lennon and the rest of ‘The Boysees’, but why he wanted Günter to dig up the graves of animals, libraries and mountain beds alike he did not know. In fact, Günter was not entirely sure he was told to grave dig, as Paul McCartney was satanically chanting “I’m better than John Lennon” throughout most of Ringo Star’s words of geranium-like wisdom.
But why had he been outcast? There had been another before he, who went by the name of Anon-Sandra, yet he/she had been kicked out of his /her hometown, to never eat potatoes by the fire again, or to never be able to carve another breadbin with a malicious yeast-lust, oh-no, the other grave-robber was then hired by the dwarvish mayor, Lord Bill Dersyard as a grave-keeper. Now some of you, the very few of you that actually indulge in this action/adventure/pine-tree-esque story may be thinking “He has to clean tombstones and fend off the dead every now and again” and I agree with this view, but don’t you think that’s nothing if you are able to eat potatoes by the fire and have the privilege of sanding his Uncle every Saturday of the high-noon while I have to recreate in my head the hooligan battle I had with my so called mates, who now, viewing from the outside world, seem really similar to peaches and not actually real vagabonds like they told me on that day after the marriage of Tony and Nile, whom have been made fun of ever since as their names seem convincingly close to the word toenail. Anyway, I had to re-enact the hooligan battles I had with my peach-mates, as we tried to create the atmosphere of a Millwall game when they are 8 goals down. Traditionally, the smallest of us (now thought to be the unripe peach) Dennis Wise, or “Big Wise” as we ironically called him, as legend had influenced us to.
Maybe it was because of the colour of my skin, magenta, or because I was a peg-legged troll that I was outcast. Or maybe everyone was afraid of me after rumours of the ordeal that I single-handedly took on a band of dwarvish like midgets inside a normally untroubled and cosy war bunker located under pine trees in someone’s garden. This is where I lost my leg, to those gnome-like creatures that only come up to yay high and who gnaw on the flesh of men and troll alike.
I think my leg came to rest under the couch in that seemingly untroubled and cost war bunker. God, I wonder what has come to be of my writing foot. Damn the vertically challenged.
Anyway, back to the action/adventure/pinetree-esque story, which my tailor, Jeffrey, is most skilfully writing for me, provided I buy him a new cashmere jumper for his ‘Sun-day’.
“I have to find the mayor”, Günter said.
He knew it was a difficult task, as he would have to strain his neck by looking forever downwards, but he would do it. He would do it again and again until he found what he was looking for. And so he went.
Through the dark of the night he crawled, in a walking motion back to his hometown. Hiding behind combine harvesters, and at one point commandeering one, he gradually made his way back to the pointlessly copy-written rural town in Bekhistan.
He arrived at the mayor’s abode, which was neither humble or like pie, fourteen minutes after the hour, which hour he did not know as his stopwatch had been maliciously attacked by daylight savings time, a demon in schedules and mass go-ers alike.
Jeffrey had commented on his molested stopwatch saying, “Only a man with blackly-white hair, a six-inch parting and a monocle can fix that!”
The mayor was sound asleep, but that wouldn’t stop Günter the flying elephant. He had once heard a tale that his Quarry told him when he was a tiny 7 foot tall trolley. The legend spoke of a great knight, who had used a haddock to awaken a sleeping half-breed toad. Günter put this idea to good use and shook the mayor until he aroused from his seemingly arousing slumber. The microscopic sized mayor seemed enraged to be awoken from such an event, but this face-boiling anger soon passed, as he looked up and up at the culprit, then he looked up even more. His anger soon turned to a cowardly whimper, which was promptly followed by the mayor letting escape a gas from his sitting end, which smelled oddly like carrots and limestone. Günter stood his ground at such a odourless smell, he stood tall where others would have broke down in pointing and laughter, yet the mayor was still a tad embarrassed.
“Wha…what do you want?” The mayor squeaked, this time from his mouth.
“Don’t mess me about tiny” Günter snapped, “You know exactly what I want!”
“Never, I shall never let slip any information to you about El Castrador” said the dim-witted mayor.
“El Castrador” Günter pointlessly replied. “El Castrador?” he repeated this time in an inquiring tone.
“Yes, he works in a Sandwich Bar over yonder.” The mayor then twitched violently and yelled, “I will tell you nothing mother! I don’t tuck myself in!”
Günter put the poor, dim-witted, tiny and seemingly skitsophrenic mayor out of his misery with one swift sneeze the mayor smacked against the wall and was left unconscious.
It had been a long trek to ‘El Bocadillo de Jamon’, yet at long last he had made it. He knew it would be impossible to find the Spaniard in an almost completely dark skin coloured town, yet he had to do it. The thought of this made him hungry, so he went into the sandwich bar and looked for some sort of nourishment. Oddly, there wasn’t any hot food in the sandwich bar, so he chose a bagel filled with spam instead. As he took his first bite of the bagel, he noticed someone of Spanish origin entering the bar. The Spaniard looked very much like the butcher the mayor spoke of.
As Günter approached El Castrador he collapsed to the floor, convulsing. As he rolled about in violent spasms, El Castrador had already left the sandwich bar and Günter was left on his own.
Günter never made it out of those wild fits alive. It turned out that he had digested a lethal dosage of spam and environmental health drones then closed down spam factories all over Bekhistan. How the spam caused an epileptic fit remains a medical mystery to this day.
This pointless tale of woe has went down in legend, as Bekhistan legend is dire as not much goes on there and Günter is now renowned throughout Bekhistan as “the troll that couldn’t hack it in life.” This story is mostly told through folklore and country songs, where the main instrument is a mandarin, not a mandolin.
Peace Out
By Scott Thomson
He had been banished from his hometown because of The Beatles, why had they told him to do that, and so persuasively too. When they sing it lulls the mind, but The Beatles singing about grave digging! It’s almost unheard of… until now.
He had lived in a small rural town on the outskirts of Bekhistan where sheep lived with dogs and farmers satisfied their hunger with pitchforks instead, what hunger I cannot specify as I am not hungry for anything, except maybe a tar coated earlobe. The town Günter came from had no name in particular; therefore it will be called a small rural town in Bekhistan for copy-write reasons. In Bekhistan he had grown up and when this ‘growing up’ was complete he ate potatoes by the fire and listened to Millwall games, on the wireless of course.
Ringo Star was such a persuasive fellow when you could see him, John Lennon and the rest of ‘The Boysees’, but why he wanted Günter to dig up the graves of animals, libraries and mountain beds alike he did not know. In fact, Günter was not entirely sure he was told to grave dig, as Paul McCartney was satanically chanting “I’m better than John Lennon” throughout most of Ringo Star’s words of geranium-like wisdom.
But why had he been outcast? There had been another before he, who went by the name of Anon-Sandra, yet he/she had been kicked out of his /her hometown, to never eat potatoes by the fire again, or to never be able to carve another breadbin with a malicious yeast-lust, oh-no, the other grave-robber was then hired by the dwarvish mayor, Lord Bill Dersyard as a grave-keeper. Now some of you, the very few of you that actually indulge in this action/adventure/pine-tree-esque story may be thinking “He has to clean tombstones and fend off the dead every now and again” and I agree with this view, but don’t you think that’s nothing if you are able to eat potatoes by the fire and have the privilege of sanding his Uncle every Saturday of the high-noon while I have to recreate in my head the hooligan battle I had with my so called mates, who now, viewing from the outside world, seem really similar to peaches and not actually real vagabonds like they told me on that day after the marriage of Tony and Nile, whom have been made fun of ever since as their names seem convincingly close to the word toenail. Anyway, I had to re-enact the hooligan battles I had with my peach-mates, as we tried to create the atmosphere of a Millwall game when they are 8 goals down. Traditionally, the smallest of us (now thought to be the unripe peach) Dennis Wise, or “Big Wise” as we ironically called him, as legend had influenced us to.
Maybe it was because of the colour of my skin, magenta, or because I was a peg-legged troll that I was outcast. Or maybe everyone was afraid of me after rumours of the ordeal that I single-handedly took on a band of dwarvish like midgets inside a normally untroubled and cosy war bunker located under pine trees in someone’s garden. This is where I lost my leg, to those gnome-like creatures that only come up to yay high and who gnaw on the flesh of men and troll alike.
I think my leg came to rest under the couch in that seemingly untroubled and cost war bunker. God, I wonder what has come to be of my writing foot. Damn the vertically challenged.
Anyway, back to the action/adventure/pinetree-esque story, which my tailor, Jeffrey, is most skilfully writing for me, provided I buy him a new cashmere jumper for his ‘Sun-day’.
“I have to find the mayor”, Günter said.
He knew it was a difficult task, as he would have to strain his neck by looking forever downwards, but he would do it. He would do it again and again until he found what he was looking for. And so he went.
Through the dark of the night he crawled, in a walking motion back to his hometown. Hiding behind combine harvesters, and at one point commandeering one, he gradually made his way back to the pointlessly copy-written rural town in Bekhistan.
He arrived at the mayor’s abode, which was neither humble or like pie, fourteen minutes after the hour, which hour he did not know as his stopwatch had been maliciously attacked by daylight savings time, a demon in schedules and mass go-ers alike.
Jeffrey had commented on his molested stopwatch saying, “Only a man with blackly-white hair, a six-inch parting and a monocle can fix that!”
The mayor was sound asleep, but that wouldn’t stop Günter the flying elephant. He had once heard a tale that his Quarry told him when he was a tiny 7 foot tall trolley. The legend spoke of a great knight, who had used a haddock to awaken a sleeping half-breed toad. Günter put this idea to good use and shook the mayor until he aroused from his seemingly arousing slumber. The microscopic sized mayor seemed enraged to be awoken from such an event, but this face-boiling anger soon passed, as he looked up and up at the culprit, then he looked up even more. His anger soon turned to a cowardly whimper, which was promptly followed by the mayor letting escape a gas from his sitting end, which smelled oddly like carrots and limestone. Günter stood his ground at such a odourless smell, he stood tall where others would have broke down in pointing and laughter, yet the mayor was still a tad embarrassed.
“Wha…what do you want?” The mayor squeaked, this time from his mouth.
“Don’t mess me about tiny” Günter snapped, “You know exactly what I want!”
“Never, I shall never let slip any information to you about El Castrador” said the dim-witted mayor.
“El Castrador” Günter pointlessly replied. “El Castrador?” he repeated this time in an inquiring tone.
“Yes, he works in a Sandwich Bar over yonder.” The mayor then twitched violently and yelled, “I will tell you nothing mother! I don’t tuck myself in!”
Günter put the poor, dim-witted, tiny and seemingly skitsophrenic mayor out of his misery with one swift sneeze the mayor smacked against the wall and was left unconscious.
It had been a long trek to ‘El Bocadillo de Jamon’, yet at long last he had made it. He knew it would be impossible to find the Spaniard in an almost completely dark skin coloured town, yet he had to do it. The thought of this made him hungry, so he went into the sandwich bar and looked for some sort of nourishment. Oddly, there wasn’t any hot food in the sandwich bar, so he chose a bagel filled with spam instead. As he took his first bite of the bagel, he noticed someone of Spanish origin entering the bar. The Spaniard looked very much like the butcher the mayor spoke of.
As Günter approached El Castrador he collapsed to the floor, convulsing. As he rolled about in violent spasms, El Castrador had already left the sandwich bar and Günter was left on his own.
Günter never made it out of those wild fits alive. It turned out that he had digested a lethal dosage of spam and environmental health drones then closed down spam factories all over Bekhistan. How the spam caused an epileptic fit remains a medical mystery to this day.
This pointless tale of woe has went down in legend, as Bekhistan legend is dire as not much goes on there and Günter is now renowned throughout Bekhistan as “the troll that couldn’t hack it in life.” This story is mostly told through folklore and country songs, where the main instrument is a mandarin, not a mandolin.
Peace Out
By Scott Thomson
Funny as a duck on a cold winters morning by Cheesemeister December 9, 2004
Related Words
Fleg
The word 'flag' as pronounced by people with thick Belfast accents. The term is a perfect encapsulation of the disproportionate and overblown reaction to the removal of the Union Jack (as in 'de fleg') from above City Hall in Belfast. Where previously it had flown for 365 days per year, it is now flown on 17 designated days of the year - in line with many other British cities.
The event caused a portion of the Protestant community ('fleggers') to make international pricks of themselves as they proceeded to wreck the fucking place, claiming it was another erosion of a 'British' identity they perceive to have been under attack since the horrifying spectre of equality reared its head in Northern Ireland.
The word 'fleg' - and indeed 'fleggers' - fittingly describes a section of humanity unconcerned with knowledge, reality or the vagaries of the English language. Like America's tea-baggers they are ruled by instinct, fear and paranoia with a side dish of rampant bigotry and startling ignorance of the world around them.
The event caused a portion of the Protestant community ('fleggers') to make international pricks of themselves as they proceeded to wreck the fucking place, claiming it was another erosion of a 'British' identity they perceive to have been under attack since the horrifying spectre of equality reared its head in Northern Ireland.
The word 'fleg' - and indeed 'fleggers' - fittingly describes a section of humanity unconcerned with knowledge, reality or the vagaries of the English language. Like America's tea-baggers they are ruled by instinct, fear and paranoia with a side dish of rampant bigotry and startling ignorance of the world around them.
Skeef
To take something small, that doesn't quite qualify as a theft. Probably from the Danish "skæv" or the Dutch "scheef", both of which are pronounced similarly, meaning "askew, or not quite right'. To change an item's ownership without permission, but only something small and of little worth.
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