 Hello Celeb lovers! Would you like to see my owl? It's a nice one, squwark, squwark! I keep him in a child-sized coffin! Speaking of owls, there's been loads of hilarious abuse towards animals by celebrities this issue. Fantastic!
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Welcome back to my words, Ghostbusters fans! It's your special friend Egon Spengler and I'm back with more tales of the paranormal! Look at my face! Look at it!
Since my last article, a fashion item on summer dresses for Swans, was such a potentially unmitigated success that teamfishcake refused to publish it, I've been using a borrowed craft knife to, what can only be described as, gouge away at the flesh that used to make up the palms of my hands.
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I haven't had the greatest of luck, when it comes to cars. Even from a young age, things started to go wrong. Like most wee toddlers, I loved things like trains, cars and wetting my pants. On the very best days, I'd be able to sit there watching Thomas The Tank Engine whilst playing with my toy cars, in soiled underwear. But of all these things, it was cars that I liked the most. "Brum Brum" was one of my first things I was able to say as a child. Once my language skills had advanced to the levels of being able to state the colour of cars, my parents were hearing a lot of "Red Brum Brum" and "Green Brum Brum" and "Why won't he shut up".
And that's where I think it all started to go wrong.
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 Yo! I am well holidayed and there is NO PANIC because this time I've got a film in the can! No, I'm not shitting cameras, I've been a broad! Yez! Si! Que? Nein! Mein HundecNas keine Nase! Because, what? Oh yeah, this! I'VE MADE A HOLIDAY DESTINATION SHOW! Great eh? E4 have never thought of that, the bastards. Who wants to watch Freunds 37608706 times when they can plan their hell-away thanks to ME?
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Auntie Fishcake won't accept your bleed
Which is why I'm doing my listening at your gristled hellishly ouch. Send your problems at me so I can pretend to care:
More shit-sponges write with probs:
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There’s nothing like wandering around a well-stocked armoury to get your testosterone flowing. Sergeant Baldy had been on duty there and had walked me round, offering his personal choices for guns for what I was about to get into. His enthusiasm had been mildly contagious, although not to the degree that I’d moaned softly when I picked up a really nasty-looking Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifle (apparently) and had to excuse myself to the bathroom briefly, like he had. But I have to confess, slamming a full magazine into it and working the action had caused a mild stirring in my loins. I was hoping it wasn’t a permanent thing.
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“You’re in a very great deal of trouble.” Great. Just what I needed to hear. I’d like to say that trouble was my middle name, but it’s actually “Boris” and I’ll thank you not to mention it. I was tensing my arms to see just how tough the rope that was holding me to the chair was, and squinting like a bastard against the spotlight to try and get some sort of idea of the layout of the warehouse, but I was failing on both counts. The rope could quite comfortably have held the QE2 in dock, and the light was doing my headache no good at all. Mister Big sat herself down on the desk in front of the spotlight and started talking again.
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 HOLY SHIT! My name is Seymour Hands, I have but TWO DAYS to produce a new, innovative piece of media for "the kids" so I better get on with it at the speed of an elastic spaniel being fired up a down! What to do? What to do? I need ideas! We've got to fill a website with videos, features and stories that will appeal to anything with a pulse AND I DON'T MEAN LENTILS. I'm in a flap here, not like a beef curtain though, I've got a deadline to meat!
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 Cloud had rolled in, covering the moon and stars, and it wasn’t doing much for our rate of travel. It seemed like every two minutes, lack of light was either making Yarbles trip over his own feet, a tree root, or a goat. Most of the time it was a goat, and the poor dumb animal would roll over and bleat like a politician facing an enquiry about their sex life. There were two choppers with serious searchlights sweeping the area we’d just vacated, and the sounds of big diesel engines and shouting suggested that whoever was in the trucks that had just arrived, it sure as shit wasn’t the Sunshine Tours sightseeing party.
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'Twas a cold, dark night, in the land of Nag. The moon shone over the little village, and over the townsfolk, sleeping in their little villagey beds. It was a quaint little village, cottages and flatlets lined the cobbled roads, and street lamps shone with their golden glow all over the town. Rows and rows of gardens, full of wonderful and colourful flowers, added a certain smell to the night air.
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Wednesday, 22 November 2006 12:01 | 
Author: 
