Saturday, August 26, 2006

Bravo, gumby crimelord

["This is just a title in search of a story, isn't it?" the narrator asked himself.

"What do you think all these blog entries are?" he replied.

"Self referentialism is so 1992," he dismissed himself, "Get on with a story!"]

The balding tyres squealed in agony as Bravo arced through the intersection, sirens close behind.

These pigs ain't gonna catch me! he thought to himself in cliched gangster.

A surprisingly dull high-speed chase later, Bravo sat relaxing in his club, the sounds of pursuit receding rapidly into the distance.

Aah, a job well done, Bravo was congratulated by his own mind.


Wednesday, August 23, 2006

No more excuses

I've just dumped into this blog the remainder of my pre-existing SSS's, which I'd been parcelling out as if making new stuff on a regular basis.

Thanks to Liv for letting me get away with using a back catalogue, largely hers, as my pretence of creativity, but now I have to write some new ones!

Fish and their Mums

"Where do you think you're going?" questioned Marvin's Mum.

"Out." replied Marvin simply.

"Well that's all right then." continued Marvin's Mum.

"Good." said monosyllabic Marvin.

So Marvin proceeded to flap (or flip, depending on your viewpoint) his tail, and swim out into the calm blue ocean.

"Byeee!!!" called Marvin's Mum in his wake.

"Bye Mum!!!" shouted Marvin back.



Rapidly the platoon floated whimsically upon the rancid ovoid transport, vapidly pillorying their intransigent neighbours - the Smiths - as was their wont.

"Oh happy day!" warbled Willy Warbler the Warbler.

Spotting his unctuous perfidity, the leopard leapt upon him, besetting him with spots.

Such is the cruelty of nature.


Frink the dog

"When travelling sideways through the blank letterbox of time, it is often necessary to finagle the balance of your hedge against some other tree trunk, in order to ensure you are categorised adequately in the case of a merciless catharsis."

Frink yawned, as he often did during Dr Rutabaga's hyper-convoluted visionary lectures, and was surprised when an episodic caveman ran juggling through the boudoir located beside him (logically speaking - the boudoir was actually in 18th Century France, where it belonged).

Dr Rutabaga grinned a self-satisfied grin at Frink's surprise,

"If you had been listening to the crap I've been spouting the past six hours, that event would have enlightened, rather than surprised, you."

"Touche" replied Frink, as he peed on a nearby fire hydrant.


Sedentary Nature

"Stop sitting there!" quailed the ornamental, oriental, accidental pudding.

"But that's what I do!" expectorated Nature.


Whiney Worry Wart

“Wiggle wiggle,” whispered Whiney with wiles.

“Wander wonderful.” wangled Worry worrisomely.

“Whatever!” weplied Wart.


Razzle and then some

Cleveland was cool this time of year. Well, cool in a stupefyingly, stultefyingly humid and intensely, inspirationally HOT kind of way. Which was why Horace had decided that this was the way it had to be. For all time.



“Splatter!” spluttered Splitter Splotter.


Mark my words

"Oh dear!" wailed Finnegan morosely.

He had long since given up on receiving his annual cucumber disbursement and had been planning on getting a good deal on black-market squash instead. However, that rapscallion Grimley had snaffled up the entire local supply and it was looking like a long, squashless winter.

Meanwhile, Grimley began putting his secret army of animated squash to work - on nothing less a task than taking over the world!

Squashina didn't think much of life as a soldier in Grimley's militia, and had her own plans to foil Grimley's dastardly plot. These plans, though, will not be revealed until the next instalment : "Figure of speech"...



"Pickles McLachlan here, Sir. I just received your call."

"Good, Pickles. We need your special talents down here immediately."

"I'm on my way!"

A hasty taxi ride, a short pogo stick romp and an interminable jog had Pickles at the crime scene within days. By the time he arrived, everyone had left the area and, in fact, the crime had been solved. It had been under the washing machine the whole time!

An hour later, Pickles sat in the Rusty Smog, his favourite all-you-can-eat restaurant, sipping a martini out of a bucket.


Sorghum pasties

Greg wasn't achieving much with the mortar and pestle as he viciously, sickeningly wrenched the green goo from its antithetic hiding place. He continued trying, nonetheless. It wasn't so much the frying as the ketchup that bothered him. His Aunt Theba had said there'd be blue pants like these, though, so he was reasonably well prepared. Except for the lumpy grenade, but that turned out to be porridge, in any case, so won't be mentioned here.

"Augur well!!!" wailed the field of pasties (so it sounded more like "Auuugur weeeeellll !!!", but that was probably obvious, so I'm just irritating you with this exposition. I can stop it if you like... Oh, you would?... Fair enough). Enormous egg-like explosions garnished the pasties with sorghum, as they slowly died, gasping, gasping, recovering a little, wheezing, snorkelling and, finally, breathing their last.

Cement Cadillac

"Oooh... aren't we the clever one!" shouted Mandy, very sarcastically.

"Shut up!" screeched Sam distractedly, as a large volume of cement poured steadily into the passenger seat of his Cadillac.

Norghul, the gramlak, thought this was very entertaining behaviour, until his Cadillac passenger seat began similarly filling with cement. Which made Joe laugh, up to the point when the cement covered his head, sitting in Norghul's passenger seat as he was.