Dear Diary,
Another year has passed and yet I feel strangely optimistic about the path that my dreams and ambitions are starting to travel along. Yes, life is such a cruel master. I feel one thing and yet I know another to be true. Why must I suffer with this wretched duality?!?! Talking of masters, my master was born on the fifth of the first month and he is a very cruel master to be sure. He banished me from my home and made me walk the lonely, cursed earth for more than fifty thousand years. Anyway, enough of the past, let's look to the future. My new course is oddly delightful. I hate most of the people on it, and I think most of them hate me too, but I do love to stare at the whiteboard whilst pretending to think. It gives me great joy knowing that my tutor believes me to be much smarter than I really am.
All of this deception has left me feeling somewhat confused, dear Diary. What should I do? Keep pretending to know what I'm talking about or stand up and implode into a small mutant army of red demons who have the power to brainwash willing human flesh and take over your blue planet? I've been pondering this dilemma for quite some time now. I've consulted friends, lovers (too many to mention, too few to cut deep), astrologers, kings, queens, and even the Pope himself. Again, chaos rears its vicious head. Many say keep on pretending, others say let the implosion prevail. I'm just so confused. Is this what I really want????
Anyway, today's class was actually mildly interesting. We learnt about the unconscious and this thing called the paradigm. It was probably all bullshit but I felt I gave one of my best class performances to date. When the tutor asked me to define the difference between dreams and reality, instead of giving a straight forward, human-like answer, I grimaced, nodded my head to the left, pointed to my nose and said "it's each man to their own device, my learned friend." The tutor gave me a knowing look and placed a red handkerchief on his brow. I believe he thinks my IQ is somewhere in the region of 173 to 180. A good day's work! Thanks, dear Diary. I sometimes feel like you're the only one who really listens to me :-(
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
KENNETH'S ANGER
Boom boom boom! Bang bang bang! Kenneth's wife was at it again; dressing up as Paul McCartney and playing the drums badly during rehearsals for her Wings tribute band's performance at the Royal Dune Inn on Sadavost Street. "Why do they have to bloody do it whilst the match is on?" thought Kenneth to himself. He kicked Russell the dog for a bit of short term anger release. "Bloody Vivian and her crap Wings tribute band" thought Russell the dog. "It's always me who ends up with a sore behind. Life's just not fair! It wouldn't be so bad if she could actually play the drums, or maybe even looked a little bit like Paul McCartney. What a monumental waste of space!" Unfortunately, the next door neighbour's black cat got bitten in a symbolic act of vengeance against Russell's master's wife's awful acts of inhumanity against the glorious songs of McCartney's Wings, especially Mull of Kintyre. Vivian's thin vocals just couldn't handle the majestic complexity of Macca's fruity whine on that one.
"Far have I wandered and much have I seen
Dark distant temples in colours of green
Fast tainted desserts, the sun sets on fire
As he carries me up to the Mall of Kantyre."
The black cat was by now properly miffed at the biting it had received from that drunken lout Kenneth's miserable swine of a dog. "A cat as pure and beautiful as I does not merit such unwanted thuggish behavior from low-life, common, BBC watching filth like that lot next door. They'll rue the day they made my pretty ginger and gold speckled tail bleed!" The cat then began to perform an ancient Egyptian death ritual but gave up after a few minutes when he was lured back indoors by the scintillating smell of Whisker's duck liver and rabbit chunks in gravy. Clearly, a very close call for the World's population there as the death ritual had supposedly been taught to one of the ancient Pharaohs by a lipstick wearing alien who thought he was a god.
Lol.
"Far have I wandered and much have I seen
Dark distant temples in colours of green
Fast tainted desserts, the sun sets on fire
As he carries me up to the Mall of Kantyre."
The black cat was by now properly miffed at the biting it had received from that drunken lout Kenneth's miserable swine of a dog. "A cat as pure and beautiful as I does not merit such unwanted thuggish behavior from low-life, common, BBC watching filth like that lot next door. They'll rue the day they made my pretty ginger and gold speckled tail bleed!" The cat then began to perform an ancient Egyptian death ritual but gave up after a few minutes when he was lured back indoors by the scintillating smell of Whisker's duck liver and rabbit chunks in gravy. Clearly, a very close call for the World's population there as the death ritual had supposedly been taught to one of the ancient Pharaohs by a lipstick wearing alien who thought he was a god.
Lol.
WEEK 4 AT MADAME LA'S
The wind blew hard. His hair was starting to annoy him. He knew he should cut it, but didn't think it'd make any difference. The crows would still know him. He walked a few blocks further and entered the tiny room he liked to call Madame La's. The truth is never as golden as Madame La's. A robotic mannequin brought him a chair, so he sat on it. A speechless parrot spat out a whiskey chaser and the party began. Turntables turned and honky tunes started to fill the room. He didn't like to dance, but he sure does now! The room begins to fill with happening young girls and malchicks. Russian porters carry large fish through the dancefloor into the kitchen. He follows and examines a mackerel being deboned. A large, lusty woman grabs him by the arm and begins to kiss him. The rest is all a blur.
Week 2 at Madame La's wasn't so good. The robots were malfunctioning, the parrots were squawking and the large, lustful women were getting violent. He removed his head with an axe and put it in the chef's hands. Monsieur Valtong wasn't accustomed to cooking the heads of young English alpha males, let alone those of pale, malnourished, suit-wearing believers. The head was back in the hands of its owner. He didn't much fancy putting it back on, so instead threw it towards the dance floor. Tony, malfunctioning robot number three, flicked it up with his left foot and spun it over to the DJ. Fat beats jumped from the stacks and the crowd was pumping. Shame a disembodied head was floating around. Its owner was missing all the fun.
Week 3 at Madame La's started with a bang. He wanted his head back and wasn't going to squabble over details. A cute devotchka had become quite taken with it and had even chosen a name. This would not stand too well with the true owner's mother. She created that face, gave it a name, brushed its hair and loved it with all her heart. He knew she was looking down and wanted him to stick up for himself. The bullet exited through the left breast and left the head thief gasping for more. The second punctured her cheek, whilst the third was merely a flesh wound to the right buttock. The walk home was uncomfortable. The wind was blowing, but no longer was he worried about his hair. He removed his tie and secured the scabby neck to its meaty shoulders. A robot skipped along behind, ready to catch the lovely head should it fall.
Week 4 at Madame La's was sure to be fun. All the gang were going to show for his birthday and dance till the sun came up. Luckily for them, something happened to him on the way home that morning. He stopped believing, a sin more fatal than three, four or five bullet wounds. Back home in his bed, he let the ceiling fall down on him. Malfunctioning robots poured water in his grave and watched him slowly float to the bottom of a milky abyss. They'd have cried if they could, but robots never shed tears for strangers. If only they knew what he knew. The secret he carried with him to his watery resting place; Madame La's just lost the best customer it ever had.
Week 2 at Madame La's wasn't so good. The robots were malfunctioning, the parrots were squawking and the large, lustful women were getting violent. He removed his head with an axe and put it in the chef's hands. Monsieur Valtong wasn't accustomed to cooking the heads of young English alpha males, let alone those of pale, malnourished, suit-wearing believers. The head was back in the hands of its owner. He didn't much fancy putting it back on, so instead threw it towards the dance floor. Tony, malfunctioning robot number three, flicked it up with his left foot and spun it over to the DJ. Fat beats jumped from the stacks and the crowd was pumping. Shame a disembodied head was floating around. Its owner was missing all the fun.
Week 3 at Madame La's started with a bang. He wanted his head back and wasn't going to squabble over details. A cute devotchka had become quite taken with it and had even chosen a name. This would not stand too well with the true owner's mother. She created that face, gave it a name, brushed its hair and loved it with all her heart. He knew she was looking down and wanted him to stick up for himself. The bullet exited through the left breast and left the head thief gasping for more. The second punctured her cheek, whilst the third was merely a flesh wound to the right buttock. The walk home was uncomfortable. The wind was blowing, but no longer was he worried about his hair. He removed his tie and secured the scabby neck to its meaty shoulders. A robot skipped along behind, ready to catch the lovely head should it fall.
Week 4 at Madame La's was sure to be fun. All the gang were going to show for his birthday and dance till the sun came up. Luckily for them, something happened to him on the way home that morning. He stopped believing, a sin more fatal than three, four or five bullet wounds. Back home in his bed, he let the ceiling fall down on him. Malfunctioning robots poured water in his grave and watched him slowly float to the bottom of a milky abyss. They'd have cried if they could, but robots never shed tears for strangers. If only they knew what he knew. The secret he carried with him to his watery resting place; Madame La's just lost the best customer it ever had.
TONY SAYS NOTHING
Tony loved to think about things that other people would probably consider to be strange. He'd been afflicted by this peculiar hobby ever since he first laid eyes on a pretty thing he thought he loved, namely, a pink ice-cream van driven during the swelteringly hot summer months by a stick-thin girl called Sally. It wasn't so much the van, or even the girl, that caught Tony's eye on that fateful August morn. No, they held little interest to a brain as warped as his. Instead, he fell head over heels, mad as a hatter in love with the rather gruesome, multicoloured fluorescent font which was sprayed along both sides of the rusting pink van. "Sally's Sweet Ices" was what it read, and those simple words seemed like God's very own poetry to young Tony, though admittedly he knew very little about poetry at all.
Every day he'd travel down to the beach where Sally parked her van, grab a pew on his favourite smooth rock, and gaze at those dreamy words for a daily average of five hours, forty-three minutes, and fifteen seconds. Tony soon realised that by staring at inanimate patterns for a long enough period of time, he was able to send himself into a mild kind of trance, one in which he'd often imagine himself to be a Roman guard marching behind Jesus on his way up to Calvary. He'd always wake from this sedately violent form of entertainment with a half-melted ice-cream cone in his hand and an uneven number of small wasps sucking on the gooey vanilla mess which usually accompanied it on his left knee. This seemed to him a strange occurrence as he'd always awake with the melting cone grasped firmly in his right hand. Anyway....
Tony and stick-thin Sally were eventually married on a stormy day in December by the local vicar, who was once a leading member of the burgeoning Hartlepool branch of rubber and whip fetishists. Vicar "Charles" (as we'll call him for the sake of his kids) swore off the rubber after a close encounter with a Ford Mondeo, three rampaging antelopes, and an unfortunately large golf club. The only acts of savagery he can now stomach are invariably acted out in his head whilst doing mundane chores such as dusting book shelves, peeling carrots, replying to written requests for confessional sittings, and marrying young couples.
"Charles" and stick-thin Sally started a brief affair the morning before Tony had written off the pink ice-cream van during a heavy night's font-gazing down the local pier. The poster read "fat chips make for happy fish" and was painted in a style reminiscent of many early art deco signs of the 1920s. After three hours of mellow gazing, all focus blurred and beautiful pictures started to flood the black gaps in his head; men in fedora hats berating a young girl for levitating before a flaming orange rainbow on Sunset Boulevard....an army of floating angels in green heralding the birth of a new king.....Tony didn't even notice when the tree slammed into the backside of Sally's pink van, scraping his beloved poetry from the left-hand side and causing a frothy stream of milk to spray from a small hole into the middle of the road. Fire quickly caught light and spread from front to back. Tony watched entranced with chips in right hand, ketchup on left knee, and an empty matchbox on his left shoe.
The divorce was quick and absolute. Tony went one way, Sally the other, ten years passed but neither could find another. They remarried in a smaller chapel than the last, inviting only a handful of guests, many of whom couldn't remember if it was Tony or Sally who'd been caught on bended knee with the vicar all those years ago. This second union lasted slightly longer than the first, only coming to an end after a disagreement over the font style for their new green ice cream van, which was to be driven during the winter months by Tony on a Wednesday and Sally on a Saturday. He went one way, she the other, neither could be bothered, they both loved to suffer. "Charles" eventually gave up the life of God and went on to form a new fetish club, catering for people who enjoy eating Mcvitie's biscuits whilst emptying the contents of their bowels into china bowls. For more information on becoming a member of this group please contact "Charles" on 07767 573458. Goodbye.
Every day he'd travel down to the beach where Sally parked her van, grab a pew on his favourite smooth rock, and gaze at those dreamy words for a daily average of five hours, forty-three minutes, and fifteen seconds. Tony soon realised that by staring at inanimate patterns for a long enough period of time, he was able to send himself into a mild kind of trance, one in which he'd often imagine himself to be a Roman guard marching behind Jesus on his way up to Calvary. He'd always wake from this sedately violent form of entertainment with a half-melted ice-cream cone in his hand and an uneven number of small wasps sucking on the gooey vanilla mess which usually accompanied it on his left knee. This seemed to him a strange occurrence as he'd always awake with the melting cone grasped firmly in his right hand. Anyway....
Tony and stick-thin Sally were eventually married on a stormy day in December by the local vicar, who was once a leading member of the burgeoning Hartlepool branch of rubber and whip fetishists. Vicar "Charles" (as we'll call him for the sake of his kids) swore off the rubber after a close encounter with a Ford Mondeo, three rampaging antelopes, and an unfortunately large golf club. The only acts of savagery he can now stomach are invariably acted out in his head whilst doing mundane chores such as dusting book shelves, peeling carrots, replying to written requests for confessional sittings, and marrying young couples.
"Charles" and stick-thin Sally started a brief affair the morning before Tony had written off the pink ice-cream van during a heavy night's font-gazing down the local pier. The poster read "fat chips make for happy fish" and was painted in a style reminiscent of many early art deco signs of the 1920s. After three hours of mellow gazing, all focus blurred and beautiful pictures started to flood the black gaps in his head; men in fedora hats berating a young girl for levitating before a flaming orange rainbow on Sunset Boulevard....an army of floating angels in green heralding the birth of a new king.....Tony didn't even notice when the tree slammed into the backside of Sally's pink van, scraping his beloved poetry from the left-hand side and causing a frothy stream of milk to spray from a small hole into the middle of the road. Fire quickly caught light and spread from front to back. Tony watched entranced with chips in right hand, ketchup on left knee, and an empty matchbox on his left shoe.
The divorce was quick and absolute. Tony went one way, Sally the other, ten years passed but neither could find another. They remarried in a smaller chapel than the last, inviting only a handful of guests, many of whom couldn't remember if it was Tony or Sally who'd been caught on bended knee with the vicar all those years ago. This second union lasted slightly longer than the first, only coming to an end after a disagreement over the font style for their new green ice cream van, which was to be driven during the winter months by Tony on a Wednesday and Sally on a Saturday. He went one way, she the other, neither could be bothered, they both loved to suffer. "Charles" eventually gave up the life of God and went on to form a new fetish club, catering for people who enjoy eating Mcvitie's biscuits whilst emptying the contents of their bowels into china bowls. For more information on becoming a member of this group please contact "Charles" on 07767 573458. Goodbye.
Friday, 26 September 2008
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE
EPISODE ONE
With special guest narrator, Brian Blessed
Hidden deep within the depths of humanity's collective soul lies the need for discovery. The need for truth! Few men can claim to have broken free from the mental prisons a cruel, unforgiving society has imposed upon them. Of those that have smashed these shackles of conformity, Gordon Ramsay is the one who strives for answers.
Known to millions worldwide as a Michellin star collecting chef of the highest repute, Ramsay seeks more than the fawning accolades bestowed upon him by an adoring, drunken public. He seeks the truth as if it were a cold, steel dagger burning deep beneath his tortured brow.
With his trusty sidekick, Limpar, a seven-foot-four-inch part-alien, part-Tibetan psychic warrior-monk, he travels the globe uncovering mystical treasures impossible to comprehend without the magnificence of a human brain.
Join Gordon and Limpar as they journey through the Aztecs battling the Skeletal Voodoo Priests of Mount Alagogo. Who knows what they will find at the mythical Temple of Pythonic Destruction? Treasure? Secrets? Or maybe.......DEATH! Find out next week exclusively in The Floating Banana Chronicles. Now only 40p!
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
THE AXL ROSE SPAGHETTI SUCKING CHALLENGE
After ten long years in the making, Guns n' Roses' latest album, Chinese Democracy, has finally leaked onto the web. To celebrate this momentous occassion, lead singer, Axl Rose, has pledged to dedicate the next ten years of his life to an entirely different sort of creative endeavour. The daredevil rocker has stunned fans by announcing on the band's website that he wants to break the world record for the longest amount of time taken to eat a single, solitary string of spaghetti.
The current record, held by eighty-five year-old Romanian fisherman, Iorghu Gheorghu, stands at an incredible nine years, four months, fifteen days, twenty-two hours, twelve minutes and thirty-one seconds. At a recent Ukrainian Spaghetti sucking convention, Gheorghu had these words of encouragement for the rock n' rolling pretender to his throne: "Mark my words, he will fail laughing in his own vomit!"
With the length of spaghetti currently measured at thirty-three and one third centimetres, Rose will have to get through less than one fifth of a millimetre per day if he's to stand any chance of breaking the record. When asked why he wanted to undertake this peculiar challenge, Rose replied: "Spaghetti is my muse, my lover, my passion and my curse. Without it civilisation would have been eradicted many years ago. I need this! I fucking need this! Get over it, bitch!"
The Floating Banana Chronicles will be there every step of the way on Axl's sucktacular journey, bringing up to the minute news as it happens. Reporting from Karachi, Pakistan, this is Jonas Salamander for T.F.B.C.
The current record, held by eighty-five year-old Romanian fisherman, Iorghu Gheorghu, stands at an incredible nine years, four months, fifteen days, twenty-two hours, twelve minutes and thirty-one seconds. At a recent Ukrainian Spaghetti sucking convention, Gheorghu had these words of encouragement for the rock n' rolling pretender to his throne: "Mark my words, he will fail laughing in his own vomit!"
With the length of spaghetti currently measured at thirty-three and one third centimetres, Rose will have to get through less than one fifth of a millimetre per day if he's to stand any chance of breaking the record. When asked why he wanted to undertake this peculiar challenge, Rose replied: "Spaghetti is my muse, my lover, my passion and my curse. Without it civilisation would have been eradicted many years ago. I need this! I fucking need this! Get over it, bitch!"
The Floating Banana Chronicles will be there every step of the way on Axl's sucktacular journey, bringing up to the minute news as it happens. Reporting from Karachi, Pakistan, this is Jonas Salamander for T.F.B.C.
Sunday, 21 September 2008
UWE BOLL TO DIRECT MARS MOVIE!
The Floating Banana Chronicles understands that oft-maligned German film maker, Uwe Boll, is in advanced talks with the American government to produce and direct NASA's planned 2011 manned mission to Mars. Top secret negotiations have been taking place between Boll and government officials since February and will be finalised once Boll's agent, Gerald Naschtkind, returns from a family skiing holiday in Austria. A clearly stunned Naschtkind had this to say upon learning of The Banana Chronicles' latest scoop: "How the hell did you find out? This is highly classified information. Do you realise the trouble that will be caused if this story breaks? Uwe would have to go back to working on shit like Alone in the Dark. Now, fuck off and die!"
Senior White House officials are believed to be desperate to keep the story under wraps as they've already promised NASA an A-list Hollywood director will be working on the project. Our top-secret source, RedRim, confirmed these worries: "Look, you've seen Boll's movies. They absolutely suck! Do you really think NASA wants to be associated with the guy who directed BloodRayne and Postal? They still think they're getting James Cameron and the shit is really going to hit the fan when this thing leaks. The sorry truth is that after bailing out Wall Street to the tune of a trillion dollars, the government can barely even afford someone of Boll's standard."
None of these concerns appear to be affecting the confidence of the German director. At a recent launch party for his latest direct to DVD movie, Seed, an irate Boll could be heard bragging to confused guests about his ability to top Stanley Kubrick's elaborate hoax for the 1969 Apollo Moon mission: "All I hear from zeze Vite Houze cunts is Stanley Kubrick ziz, Apollo mission zat. Just because he shot zat fat bitch, Neil Armstrong, jumping onto zom fake sand, everyone thinks he's some sort of fucking god! I could have made a better moon movie vit vun arm tied behind my back and a jumbo bratwerzt sausage rammed up my arze hole! It was zo fucking fake!"
Negotiations were scheduled to have been completed months ago in order for pre-production to begin. Production Costume designer, Jeane Lee, explains the hold up: "This deal should have been tied up in July. It was all agreed, the only thing needed was Boll's signature and pre-production could have commenced. Unfortunately, things are never quite that clean cut with Mr Boll. You see, a nice simple land on Mars, walk around for a bit, then get off of Mars approach isn't good enough for Uwe. He wants the astronauts to get attacked by this thing called "The Martian Angel of Death." He says it's a half scorpion, half humanoid, devourer of souls. The nightmare for us is that George W. Bush has bought into it hook, line and sinker. He's now refusing to commission the Mars project unless the Martian Angel of Death is guaranteed an appearance. He even wants the astronauts to all be killed so he can squeeze some money out of congress for weapons to go and fight this thing."
Despite the current impasse in negotations, White House officials expect Boll to sign once filming finshes on his latest movie, BloodRayne 3: Destruction of Dreams.
Senior White House officials are believed to be desperate to keep the story under wraps as they've already promised NASA an A-list Hollywood director will be working on the project. Our top-secret source, RedRim, confirmed these worries: "Look, you've seen Boll's movies. They absolutely suck! Do you really think NASA wants to be associated with the guy who directed BloodRayne and Postal? They still think they're getting James Cameron and the shit is really going to hit the fan when this thing leaks. The sorry truth is that after bailing out Wall Street to the tune of a trillion dollars, the government can barely even afford someone of Boll's standard."
None of these concerns appear to be affecting the confidence of the German director. At a recent launch party for his latest direct to DVD movie, Seed, an irate Boll could be heard bragging to confused guests about his ability to top Stanley Kubrick's elaborate hoax for the 1969 Apollo Moon mission: "All I hear from zeze Vite Houze cunts is Stanley Kubrick ziz, Apollo mission zat. Just because he shot zat fat bitch, Neil Armstrong, jumping onto zom fake sand, everyone thinks he's some sort of fucking god! I could have made a better moon movie vit vun arm tied behind my back and a jumbo bratwerzt sausage rammed up my arze hole! It was zo fucking fake!"
Negotiations were scheduled to have been completed months ago in order for pre-production to begin. Production Costume designer, Jeane Lee, explains the hold up: "This deal should have been tied up in July. It was all agreed, the only thing needed was Boll's signature and pre-production could have commenced. Unfortunately, things are never quite that clean cut with Mr Boll. You see, a nice simple land on Mars, walk around for a bit, then get off of Mars approach isn't good enough for Uwe. He wants the astronauts to get attacked by this thing called "The Martian Angel of Death." He says it's a half scorpion, half humanoid, devourer of souls. The nightmare for us is that George W. Bush has bought into it hook, line and sinker. He's now refusing to commission the Mars project unless the Martian Angel of Death is guaranteed an appearance. He even wants the astronauts to all be killed so he can squeeze some money out of congress for weapons to go and fight this thing."
Despite the current impasse in negotations, White House officials expect Boll to sign once filming finshes on his latest movie, BloodRayne 3: Destruction of Dreams.
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